


The Sea We Remember

by undelicate



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Smoking, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undelicate/pseuds/undelicate
Summary: “So what’s your call?” Seungmin asked, balancing the coin on his forefinger and thumb.Minho held up crossed fingers. “Tails.”“Alright. One, two, three—”Seungmin flipped the coin in the air, and as soon as it landed in his palm, he slapped it onto the back of his other hand without revealing it.Minho eyed his two friends warily. “Wait, what’s the punishment if I guess wrong?”“You have to ask someone out on a date in front of us,” Changbin said.----------AKA: It's 1999, and a chance encounter at an arcade leads to an undeniable bond between Minho and Jisung. As they cross the threshold into the new millennium and young adulthood, they try to figure out what it all means, and what they mean to each other.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, [implied] Hwang Hyunjin/Seo Changbin
Comments: 48
Kudos: 200
Collections: MINSUNG FICATHON: Round One; 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [MINSUNG FICATHON](http://twitter.com/minsungficathon), for PROMPT **P096**
>
>> 90s AU, or to be more accurate... it's 1999 and everyone is bracing themselves for Y2K. How do Minho and Jisung spend their time together?   
> 
> 
>   
> Of note:  
> \- As this takes place in the '90s and '00s, outdated terms and phrases are intentional. ~~Mostly lol~~  
>  \- Ages were kept international to avoid confusion.  
> \- Apologies to the prompter who probably expected something light-hearted and funny instead of... this lol. I do hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. Y2K isn't the central theme of the story but it is a major plot point, so I hope that will suffice ;;

Minho had a fifty-fifty chance.

If he guessed the coin flip correctly, he’d get off scot-free. Otherwise he’d suffer a cruel and unusual punishment at the whim of his two friends.

Seungmin twirled the 500 won coin across his knuckles, then buried it in his fist as if to wield its power.

“You should have just agreed to pay for lunch,” Changbin said to Minho.

Seungmin pointedly raised a brow. “Have you ever known Minho hyung to be a graceful loser?”

“The bet was rigged as hell,” Minho protested. “You know I suck at fighting games! Of course I was gonna get the lowest score.” He punctuated his statement by grabbing the mallet of a nearby Whack-A-Mole game and bopping Changbin’s head with it. It was no more than a light tap, but Changbin dramatically collapsed to the floor anyway, crying bloody murder.

“So what’s your call?” Seungmin asked, balancing the coin on his forefinger and thumb.

Minho held up crossed fingers. “Tails.”

“Alright. One, two, three—”

Seungmin flipped the coin in the air, and as soon as it landed in his palm, he slapped it onto the back of his other hand without revealing it.

Minho eyed his two friends warily. “Wait, what’s the punishment if I guess wrong?”

“You have to ask someone out on a date in front of us,” Changbin said.

“Here? At the arcade?!”

Changbin’s cheeky smile answered the question for him.

Minho winced and looked around; the place was mostly full of high school and college-aged males who oozed a try-hard vibe with their overly gelled hairstyles and baggy jeans. Not exactly Minho’s type.

After scanning around some more, his gaze landed on a boy playing _Street Fighter_ across the room. He looked to be in his late teens, with bangs that grazed the top of his cheeks, and he donned a plaid shirt underneath his winter jacket. Minho could only see his profile from where he stood, but it was a nice enough face considering the harsh lighting of the gaming screen.

But Minho couldn’t stomach to potentially creep anyone out by asking them out point blank, no matter how benign his intentions.

“Forget it,” Minho said, wrinkling his nose in defeat and turning back to his two friends. “I’ll just pay for our lunch.”

“And tomorrow’s lunch,” Changbin added, “as penalty for chickening out of the coin toss that _you_ suggested.”

Minho made a face at him. He really needed new friends. “Fine.”

Seungmin shrugged and finally removed his hand to reveal the coin: it had landed on tails.

  
  
  


Minho walked out of the noodle shop with a heavier stomach and a significantly lighter wallet thanks to his two so-called friends. They loitered in front of King’s Arcade and half-heartedly bickered amongst themselves until Changbin and Seungmin said their goodbyes, while Minho opted to stick around and squeeze in some practice at _Soulcalibur_ , the current bane of his existence.

Passing under a blinking neon sign, he reentered the dark hall of the arcade and obtained more tokens from the exchange machine, dumping the coins into his pocket. He then noticed that the plaid shirt-donning boy from earlier was still playing Street Fighter, though this time a larger man loomed next to him. They seemed to be arguing over something; the man’s body language was becoming more agitated as he gestured aggressively into the other’s space.

Minho inched closer to the scene until he could make out their words.

“Give me back my money,” the man said.

“No,” plaid shirt boy said, “I won fair and square.”

“There’s no fucking way some runt like you could beat me three times in a row unless you’re cheating.”

“What? We’re playing on the same machine, how could I cheat?”

The other man—who looked to be in his mid-twenties at least—straightened his shoulders and stepped into the boy’s space in a stance to intimidate. “You disrespecting your elder?”

Plaid shirt boy stood his ground and kept his eyes forward on the game screen, but his white-knuckled grip on the joystick belied his stoicism.

“Are you deaf on top of stupid?” The man-bully jabbed a finger to the boy’s temple, his tone loud and heated. But the latter remained planted in place.

Minho couldn’t disagree that boy _was_ being colossally stupid by challenging someone twice his size and who harbored an unhealthy amount of misplaced anger. As if to prove his point, the bully shoved the boy and sent him stumbling backward. Minho’s stomach dropped, his limbs tingling with a cold dread.

“Idiot,” Minho muttered to himself. “He’s gonna get his head bashed in.”

Like cornered prey with no sense of self-preservation, the boy rose to his feet and clenched fists, though the tremble in his stance was obvious.

“I said, are you _deaf_ —” The bully stalked closer, and when no answer was given, he raised his fist to strike the boy and—

“ _Hyung-nim!_ ”

Before Minho could prepare himself for action, his body had already stepped in between the larger man and the would-be victim while barely avoiding getting decked himself. The bully’s face contorted in deeper annoyance at Minho.

“The fuck you want?”

Minho gulped audibly. _Keep cool, keep calm, keep breathing._

“Hyung-nim, I deeply apologize on behalf of my friend,” Minho said with a bow. “He’s had a rough day and isn’t in his right mind.” He glanced at plaid shirt boy with a stiff smile, hoping his look of _just-play-along-for-the-love-of-god_ was sufficiently communicated. The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion but thankfully, he kept quiet.

Minho turned to the other man again. “If you tell me how much you’re owed, I’ll reimburse you myself.”

The charged fist that had been hanging in the air (and much too close to Minho’s own face) finally unclenched and was lowered.

“Keep your dirty fucking money,” the man spat. He then air-jabbed his finger in the other boy’s direction. “And _you_ —next time you step up to me, I won’t let your little friend come to the rescue.”

“Thanks for your understanding,” Minho said with a final bow.

“Fuck off.”

Minho didn’t exhale until the bully had snaked his way through the crowd and disappeared to the other end of the arcade hall.

“What the hell was that for?” the boy said from behind. Minho turned around and was met with a mildly irritated face rather than the tearful gratitude he’d expected (naturally).

“You’re welcome,” Minho deadpanned. “I only saved your skin.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for your help.”

Minho snorted in disbelief. _No good deed goes unpunished indeed._ “I’m beginning to see why you got on that guy’s nerves so quick.”

The boy’s eyes flashed with hurt as he fisted the hem of his plaid shirt, prompting an awkward silence to follow.

Minho inwardly cringed at his own ill-timed comment. He rubbed the back of his neck and scanned through the bustling crowd for an exit until something that felt suspiciously like guilt twisted in his gut.

 _Shit._ Today was his day to be a Good Samaritan, apparently.

“Hey,” he sighed, nodding toward the Street Fighter game, “think you can handle me in a match?”

The boy looked askance at him, though the wariness subsided when the corner of Minho’s mouth quirked in appeasement.

“I’m all out of tokens,” the boy said while patting his pockets.

Minho reached into his own pocket and showed off a pile of arcade coins in the palm of his hand. “Lucky for you, I have extra.”

Following a beat of reticence, the boy picked one off and inserted it into the machine slot. Minho did the same, and the game transitioned to the character selection screen.

The match seemed to have ended as soon as it had begun, with the boy claiming victory in two straight rounds, launching lightning-quick combo attacks to which Minho had no defense. So Minho inserted another token. Then another. Before he knew it, he was staring dumbfounded at Chun Li celebrating her victory dance over Akuma’s beaten body for the umpteenth time.

“You’re bleeding me dry,” Minho said as he inserted yet another coin.

“You can give up, you know. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Not until I win a match.”

“Good luck with that. I won’t go easy on you.”

“Good, I’m not looking for a pity win.”

Minho jogged in place while shaking off the tension in his hands, a sight that the boy clearly found amusing.

“You’re weird,” he chuckled.

Minho clicked his tongue. “Is that supposed to be an insult? ’Cause if it is, you failed.”

“Not as much as you fail at Street Fighter.”

Minho’s mouth twitched into a smile at the jab, a betrayal of his put-on apathy. “If you’re gonna dis me, at least tell me your name first.”

“Han Jisung,” the boy said with a new ease, and radiant colors from the screen lit up his face at the revelation. His tongue peeked out of his mouth in an apparent habit of concentration as he readied himself for the next match.

Minho’s grip on his joystick was nowhere near confident. “I’m Lee Minho.”

Several more rounds of defeat and a sufficiently battered ego later, Minho dug into his jean pocket for the last remaining token. “One final match?”

“Someone’s a glutton for punishment,” Jisung said with a grin that was proper smug and eyes twinkling behind too-long bangs.

Cockiness suited him well, Minho decided. If the certainty of the sentiment surprised him, any chance to dwell on it was buried by the chime commencing the fight.

“How old are you?” Minho asked after he was soundly pummeled by Jisung’s in-game character for the last time. He was now relegated to spectating as Jisung, being the victor, continued to play against the game’s A.I.

“Eighteen.”

“So you’re entering uni in March?”

“Yep,” Jisung said with nil enthusiasm. His tongue peeked out farther as he aggressively tapped the buttons.

Minho studied the younger’s features that seemed to be a contradiction of roundness and sharp lines. “How come I haven’t seen you in high school? We would have overlapped a year before I graduated.”

Jisung glanced back, “You went to Yushin High?”

“Ah—no, I was at Jeongdong.”

It figured he’d be from across town; had they attended the same school, Minho was fairly sure he would’ve remembered that face.

After watching Jisung reach the final boss level, it looked as though his winning streak wouldn’t end anytime soon, so Minho silently bid farewell and headed toward the exit. Emerging from the dark and dingy arcade hall and its cacophony of sound effects, he shielded his eyes from the too-bright afternoon sun.

A glance at his pager showed no new messages from his parents, which meant he had another hour to kill before needing to head home, so he hopped onto a nearby sidewalk railing and fished out a pack of smokes. He slipped a cigarette between his lips and patted down his pockets, furrowing his brow in annoyance as he fumbled in search of the lighter.

“Take this instead,” a voice broke up his thoughts. He looked up and recognized the owner of said voice, Han Jisung, who was standing before him and offering up a lollipop of all things.

“Will that light this?” Minho mumbled around his cigarette.

Jisung pushed back his floppy bangs from his forehead. “No, but it won’t fuck up your lungs either, so I’d say it’s the better option.”

Minho paused to notice that Jisung’s hair was distractingly shiny under sunlight. “Did you come out here to lecture me?”

“As the elder one, you’re not setting a very good example of a healthy lifestyle.”

Jisung hopped up next to Minho on the railing and held up the lollipop once more. Minho made a last-ditch effort to retrieve his lighter from his pockets, and when he came up empty-handed, he pocketed the smokes and plucked the offering from Jisung’s grasp. He unwrapped it with a sigh.

“Thanks,” he said around a mouthful of lollipop. The predictable too-sugary taste was chased by a pinch of tartness. Blueberry?

They sat on the railing for a good minute without exchanging a word, and Minho wondered why the silence didn’t feel as foreign as it should have. When the heel of Minho’s sneaker tapped rhythmically against the metal bars, Jisung gripped his hands on the railing and did the same.

Minho pulled out the lollipop when roughly half had dissolved. He inspected its bright blue hue—too artificial even for sugar candy—and waved it in the other’s direction as he spoke. “How did you get so good at Street Fighter?”

Jisung shrugged. “I practice a lot.”

“I mean... shouldn’t you be doing sports instead, or whatever? Since you’re such a health expert and all.”

Jisung locked eyes with Minho for a moment before his gaze dropped to his mouth. “You assume that I have friends to play sports _with_ ,” he said with a mirthless chuckle.

Oh. The confession surprised Minho (in fact, Jisung had the sort of boyish good looks that Minho would’ve guessed put him in the popular tier at school), but he hummed and nodded anyway. He hardly knew the kid and was in no position to judge. His mouth found the lollipop again, and he bit down on the remnant with a satisfying crunch.

“Me too,” Jisung said with a smile that was not entirely mirthless.

“What?”

Jisung’s eyes fell to Minho’s mouth again, and Minho barely avoided choking on a broken candy shard.

“I also lick the lollipop till it’s half gone then bite into it. And sometimes... sometimes I don’t even lick it once. I go straight for the kill.”

“You heathen,” Minho chuckled.

Jisung snorted, keeping his eyes trained on Minho’s mouth. Heat coated the tips of Minho’s ears despite the chilled air.

“Do I have something on my face?” his said, tone rising a degree in mild frustration.

“Sorry,” Jisung glanced away sheepishly, “it’s just that your lips are all blue now.”

Minho unconsciously licked his lips. “So it wasn’t enough that you wiped the floor with me in Street Fighter—now I look like I sucked Doraemon’s ass.”

Jisung leaned forward and laughed, the sound ringing bright and clear. One hundred percent mirth, Minho judged. He hopped off the railing and tossed the lollipop stick into a nearby trash can.

“You’re leaving?” Jisung said, suddenly quieter. His shoulders stiffened in a less confident posture than before.

Minho jammed his hands in his coat pockets, one hand fidgeting with the cigarette pack, the other smoothing the candy wrapper that he’d forgotten to throw away. The sunlight that reflected off Jisung’s hair was near blinding, but it was the sad glint of his doe eyes that made Minho look away.

“You think you can teach me some Street Fighter tips?” Minho said, burying his hands deeper in his pockets. “So that, y’know, I can suck less.”

Just like that, the uncertainty lifted from Jisung’s face. “If you want.”

“Okay. You gonna be here next week?”

Jisung nodded. “I’m here on Sunday afternoons.”

“Okay.” Minho slowly turned on his heel, took two steps, then turned back around. “I’ll see you next Sunday at one.”

Jisung bit his lower lip as if attempting to hide the smile that was very obviously forming. “Actually, can you come at noon? You can buy me lunch in exchange for me teaching you.”

_Audacious words for someone who was supposedly friendless._

“As long as it’s under 10,000 won,” Minho said before walking away.

* * *

“Try again,” Jisung practically shouted to be heard over the din of chatter and _pew pew_ noises coming from a nearby space shooter. “Right, down, down-right, then press any punch button.”

It had only been a few minutes into his “tutoring” session the following Sunday at King’s Arcade, but Minho was starting to regret keeping his word, his palms already turning damp with sweat trying to keep up with Jisung’s instructions. He wiped his hands on his jeans and glanced sideways at Jisung, hoping the younger hadn’t noticed.

Jisung leaned across without warning, nearly knocking his forehead on Minho’s chin, and he placed his hands over both of Minho’s to show him the maneuvers. “If your opponent comes at you from the air, you can knock them back with a well-timed _shoryuken_ —like this—or push forward—like this—for a high parry. If you really wanna mess them up, I recommend _messatsu gou-shoryu_ which is like a triple _shoryuken_ , but you can do that move only when your super meter starts flashing.”

“Sure,” Minho said, as if what Jisung had just mimed made a lick of sense. If he’d learned anything so far, it was that Jisung’s hands were slightly bigger than his own.

Jisung moved onto the next lesson in which he explained the art of jump attacks, when a male voice barked out from behind.

“You two lovebirds done yet?”

Jisung’s hands immediately fell away, and he took a large step back, his face frozen with a certain dread. Picking up on this, Minho stepped in front of Jisung to block him from the sudden aggressor—whom he recognized as the bully from last week.

Minho reached back and loosely grabbed Jisung by the wrist, and he led him to the relatively quieter section of the arcade where the crowd was playing air hockey and mini hoops.

“You good?” Minho asked, tilting his head so that he could examine Jisung’s face turned downward.

“Yeah.”

Minho gently squeezed his wrist before letting go. “Wanna play air hockey? I’m already good at that, so no need to tutor me.”

A small smile flitted across Jisung’s mouth as he nodded. They walked toward an empty table and Minho inserted the tokens into the slot.

“Watch and learn from the master,” Minho said from, pushing the puck toward Jisung’s end with his circular mallet, but he’d barely uttered his words when the puck zoomed straight back into his own goal slot. That earned a giggle from both boys.

It turned out that Minho was not in fact an air hockey master, but he got his revenge by squarely beating Jisung in hoops, so they declared a truce. Minho bought overpriced pizza slices from the snack kiosk and watched in amusement as Jisung’s chipmunk cheeks grew bigger with each bite.

The male bully had hogged up an entire corner of the arcade with his buddies, polluting the air with their loud-mouthed heckling. Jisung shot an uncomfortable glance at them.

“I think I’m done for the day,” he said, buttoning up his parka to the chin. Minho raised the hood of his own jacket and they walked out into the bright winter afternoon.

Free from the oppressive din of explosions and guns sounds and testosterone-fueled trash-talk, Minho fished out a cigarette from his pocket along with a lighter (which he’d made sure not to forget this time). As he raised the flame to his face, Jisung walked backward on the sidewalk till there was a good five meters distance between them.

“What gives?” Minho said with a slight scowl. He flicked off the lighter, stick unlit.

“Finish your cancer stick first, then we’ll talk.”

The patronizing tone made Minho regret having given the younger his time of day at all. And yet—

A grunt escaped his lips when he put the cigarette away.

“Happy now?”

Jisung nodded with a satisfied smile. Approaching Minho again, he dug into his pocket and held out several wrapped candies in his palm.

“You’re like my grandmother,” Minho quipped mildly. “Always carrying around candy to feed her grandchildren with.” He plucked one from the pile anyway, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. The classic burst of strawberry greeted his tongue. Not that he’d admit it to Jisung, but sucking on overly-sweet confection did ease his craving for a nicotine hit.

He hopped on the same railing as before and bounced his heels off the bars.

“What flavor did you get?” Jisung asked as he climbed on next to him.

Mischief tugged the corner of Minho’s lips as he turned to Jisung. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” He helpfully stuck out the candy between his teeth.

Jisung swatted at him with a noise of disgust, though his cheeks began to color rapidly. He reached into his jacket pocket again and pulled out a discman connected to a pair of tangled earphones.

When Jisung struggled to untangle the mess of wires, Minho swiped it from his grasp.

“Slow down and follow the thread,” Minho said softly, turning over the candy in his mouth in concentration. Jisung bent his head toward him to observe his fingers in action.

A moment later, having pulled the wires apart, Minho stuffed one earbud into his right ear and handed Jisung the left bud.

A dulcet male voice sang over a guitar-laced ballad when Jisung pressed play.

 _🎵 I won’t change anything, everything will remain as it was_ _  
__So that if ever you return, nothing would be unfamiliar_

Minho raised a brow at the music choice. “Yoon Jong Shin? No offense or anything, but you look more like an idol fanboy.”

“I can’t like both?”

 _🎵 Wherever, whenever, I would like it if you looked for me_ _  
__I hope to never change, no matter what_

“Good music is good music,” Jisung continued, twirling the earphone wire around his finger. “My dream is to write and produce songs for all kinds of genres one day.”

 _🎵 No one will try to stop me because they know I can’t forget_ _  
__I’ll just live my life waiting, like I’m living in a dream_

“Cool,” Minho said. He noticed an H.O.T sticker on the discman along with the initials _HJS_ scratched next to it. “Ever think of becoming an idol too?”

“Hell no,” Jisung said. He cleared his throat and casually moved his hand to cover up the sticker. Minho smiled in amusement.

 _🎵 If you happen to meet another, please never let me know_ _  
__I’m afraid that my pitiful self would wish you happiness_

* * *

It was another Sunday afternoon, and Minho met Jisung for the third consecutive week. They ordered themselves stir-fried udon at the noodle shop next to the arcade.

Several weeks of winter break remained before Minho would enter his third year of uni, but he had little time to rest as he spent most of his days working at his parents’ health food store, leaving him a precious few hours on Sundays to empty his brain.

And that’s exactly what Minho felt when he was with Jisung: empty-headed, in the sense that he could dump any topic of conversation at him and the younger would receive him as naturally as breathing.

(Minho wasn’t sure how such an easy rapport had formed in such a short time, but he kept the thought at an arm’s length so as to not overcomplicate matters.)

Jisung confessed that he had wished to pursue music seriously, but his parents had convinced him to choose Computer Science for its stable career prospects. He quickly moved on from the subject and was more spirited to talk about his favorite manga series.

“What do you think of Y2K?” Jisung said, switching gears again.

“What about it?” Minho said with a mouthful of noodles.

“Do you think all that crazy stuff will happen? Like all of the world’s computers crashing and unleashing the apocalypse?”

The so-called Millennium bug had been a hot topic for the latter half of the decade, with the speculation that as soon as the year turned 2000, computer systems would convert it to 1900 and potentially ignite global mayhem. Fears only compounded once the new year had been ushered in. Which meant the world had less than a year to prevent a literal doomsday.

“If it happens, it happens,” Minho said matter-of-factly despite the heavy implications. He didn’t like to fret over what-ifs and preferred to focus on fixing things within his control. Like what he was doing now: reaching across the table with a napkin to wipe off noodle sauce from Jisung’s chin.

Jisung’s cheeks colored at the gesture, and he moved on to babble about how he looked forward to the next installment of _One Piece_.

* * *

“How does it feel to be freed from the shackles of high school education?” Minho asked on the Sunday after Jisung’s graduation.

Jisung squinted at the sky and shrugged. “Feels like I’m trading it in for the shackles of tertiary education.”

Minho huffed air through his nose. “Smartass.”

It was unusually warm for a day in February. Both Minho and Jisung had shed their parkas, and they sat on the railing as their conversation somehow morphed from angsting about the future to a Spam vs. tuna debate as the superior ingredient in kimchi stew.

“Are you kidding? Spam all the way,” Jisung argued. “Tuna makes the stew smell fishy.”

Minho scoffed. “Tuna _enhances_ the flavor of the soup.”

“Whatever, you could get the same taste from a mackerel.”

“What an awful, terrible, incorrect opinion and I hope college education will knock some sense into you.” Minho grimaced and rummaged through his pocket. “I need a smoke in the meantime.”

Jisung leaned away with a scowl, then relaxed when he realized what Minho had actually pulled out.

“I brought my own supply this time,” Minho said, flashing a hard candy between his thumb and forefinger before popping it in his mouth. He savored the warm pineapple taste on his tongue and hummed in approval.

Jisung tapped his shoe against Minho’s. “What flavor is it?”

Minho stuck out the candy between his lips and arched a brow, once again offering Jisung to taste for himself. Jisung stilled in hesitation and fixed his gaze on the candy as if he were actually contemplating the mouth-to-mouth transfer. His eyes met Minho’s with a silent question.

“Do I have something on my face?” Minho said, sensing warmth tingling down his spine.

The younger boy snapped out of his trance and chuckled half-heartedly. “Yeah—ugliness.”

“Just for that, I’m not giving you a piece.”

Jisung jutted out his bottom lip and presented his hand to Minho, palm side up. “Sharing is caring.”

“Not with a brat like you.”

Minho dropped a piece of candy onto Jisung’s palm anyway. The gold foil scintillated under the sun as Jisung fidgeted with the ends of the wrapper.

After a couple of hours spent inside the arcade, Minho dragged Jisung to a local flower shop two blocks down. Minho surveyed the various floral arrangements with his hands linked behind his back.

“Buying flowers for your girlfriend?” Jisung asked as he followed the older around like a confused puppy.

Rather than answering, Minho picked out a vibrant bouquet of roses, lilies, and carnations. After he paid, he held out the flowers to Jisung.

“Happy graduation.”

With a soft gasp, Jisung gently cradled the arrangement in his hands, his eyes lingering long over each flower. He leaned his face into the bouquet to take in its scent and resurfaced with a heart-shaped grin.

  
  
  


_“You assume that I have friends to play sports with.”_

No matter how many times Minho replayed those words in his head, he couldn’t make sense of them. Befriending Jisung had been like second nature to him. He couldn’t fathom how someone who laughed like Jisung, who had a keen sense of humor, who listened with a tender heart, could have wandered the corridors of his school with no one to walk beside him.

The afternoon was slipping toward evening, and the two boys arrived at Minho’s bus stop.

“Jisung-ah,” Minho began carefully, “when you said you didn’t have friends... is it true?”

Jisung shrugged and raised the flower bouquet to his nose again, taking his time to breathe it in. “There were kids who were nice to me in school, but it’s not like we shared our lunches or whatever. Most of the people I hung out with were hyungs outside my school who weren’t the best influence. I wouldn’t have exactly called them friends, either.”

Minho suspected there was a complicated history behind that, but he didn’t push the issue further.

Later that week, he asked Changbin and Seungmin for a favor in exchange for the promise of free food.

* * *

The following Sunday, Minho arrived at the arcade with Seo Changbin and Kim Seungmin in tow. The former was Minho’s friend since high school, a short-statured 19 year-old with a jawline that could cut glass and a deceptively soft heart beneath his intimidating veneer. The latter was a dongsaeng, same aged as Jisung, whom he’d befriended through Changbin. Excelling in academics as well as sports, he was by far the most sensible one of the group, though he was not above lowering his IQ to play with the older boys.

Jisung greeted the two boys with a cautious bow and uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

The four boys made the rounds at King’s Arcade and shuffled from game to game. Jisung sat out most of them and hovered on the edge of their conversations, uncharacteristically muted in his demeanor. Minho resisted the temptation to baby him. He figured Jisung would warm up to the others in time.

Seungmin and Changbin had become hooked on a military-style shooting game—though with their nonstop bickering, they shot their mouths off more than actual bullets.

“Stop hogging all the kills!” Changbin barked as he peered down the scope of the toy rifle. “Clearly you’re abusing your skills as a baseball pitcher.”

Seungmin snorted, not easing up on his shooting at all. “Maybe if you were taller you’d suck less at aiming.”

Minho turned around to share a giggle with Jisung at that, but he was met with empty space where Jisung had been standing less than a minute ago. He excused himself and scanned the crowds, but the younger was nowhere to be found.

The object of his search came into view when he stepped outside. Jisung was sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the railing, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Not having fun?” Minho settled down beside him on the cold pavement.

Jisung offered a wry smile, his bangs fluttering over his eyes and his face more sunken than usual. He looked achingly young in that moment.

“Sorry. I just... suck at being around people.”

Minho tickled the bend of Jisung’s knee. “You don’t suck at being around me.”

“Yeah, well? It’s different with you, hyung.” Jisung picked at the jean fabric where Minho’s fingers had touched. “You don’t judge me like others do.”

“So what if people judge you? You can judge them right back.”

“I guess I’d rather not deal with any of that stuff.”

Minho reached over to gently lift Jisung’s fidgeting hand from his knee. “You’re gonna poke a hole if you keep doing that.” Without meaning to, his thumb stroked the inside of Jisung’s wrist before he let go.

Befuddled by his own action, Minho crossed his arms to his chest and changed the subject. “Hey, have I mentioned that Changbin’s studying music?”

“Really?” Jisung faintly perked up. “Does he play an instrument?”

“Actually, he wants to produce music like you do. Like professionally.”

The usual spark returned to Jisung’s demeanor for the first time that day. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “That’s why I wanted you guys to meet. I think you’d have a lot in common.”

“Lee Minho!” a voice called out. Speak of the devil. Minho looked up and saw Changbin and Seungmin approaching, the older of the two wagging an accusatory finger. “You practically beg us to come here only to ditch us like this?”

“And where’s that free food you promised us?” Seungmin joined in, patting his stomach.

Minho rose to his feet and dusted off his jeans, then pulled Jisung to his feet by the hand. Their fingers interlaced for a split second before separating.

“Both of you take a chill pill,” Minho quipped. “There’s a good _sundubu_ place a few blocks down.”

The four boys grumbled amicably amongst each other as they headed down the street (though Jisung mostly listened in amusement). They made an impromptu stop at a music shop, where Changbin and Jisung oohed and aahed over the various instruments. With a satisfied heart, Minho watched the two make small talk over their musical knowledge. Seungmin put on a mini concert as he played Kim Gun Mo’s “Beautiful Goodbye” on a Casio keyboard (because of course he’d be proficient at piano too), and Jisung leaned warmly into Minho’s side as the notes filled the room.

* * *

“You should come over to my place some time,” Minho suggested one spring afternoon over a game of air hockey. “Shit!” he hissed when Jisung scored another goal. He retrieved the puck and shoved it with a loud clack.

Jisung deftly fielded the puck that had ricocheted toward him. “I doubt my aunt and uncle would be cool with that.”

“Aunt and uncle?”

Jisung cursed under his breath when Minho scored a goal of his own. “My parents recently relocated to Malaysia for their business, with my older brother, so now I live with my relatives and commute from their house.”

Minho nodded in acknowledgment. “Are they strict?”

“They’re nice folks, but they’re kind of stressed over me being in college. Always looking over my shoulder, you know? Especially since my parents have _expectations_ of me.” Jisung punctuated with an emphatic strike of the puck. “It’s a miracle that I graduated high school to be honest, so now I’m pretty much confined to the house and the library.”

“But you’re allowed at the arcade every weekend, no?”

Jisung shrugged, his demeanor sullen. “Only until this month.” He scored another goal, winning the game 7-5. The look on his face was anything but victorious.

Time for a positive distraction, then. Minho cocked his head and waved Jisung over to the Street Fighter game from which the earlier crowd had finally dispersed.

“What if you came over to study?” Minho said, inserting tokens into the machine.

Jisung snorted. “As if my aunt and uncle would believe that.”

As they commenced the brawl on screen, something gnawed at Minho at the idea of not seeing Jisung on Sundays anymore. It was difficult to deny that they’d forged a special bond in the short three months they’d gotten to know each other.

Minho tossed out another suggestion amidst the chaotic sounds of punches and kicks. “What if I tutored you, then?”

“On what?”

“Whatever you need help with.” Minho bit his lip in concentration as he parried Jisung’s attacks. “I don’t know much about comp sci but I can help you with basic course studi— _holyshitIwon?!_ ” He stared with mouth agape at his fighter doing a victory pose over Jisung’s prone—and very much defeated— character on screen.

“You did it,” Jisung said with a proud grin. “The student has become the master.”

Caught up in the adrenaline rush of victory, Minho lifted Jisung in his arms and spun him around. The younger boy shrieked and laughed into his ear.

“Hyung, you’re embarrassing,” Jisung said when he was lowered back down, though his smile hadn’t faded at all.

“Come over today?” Minho blurted out, a little breathless. His arms remained loosely circled around Jisung’s tiny waist. “I mean, for tutoring, if you’re allowed.”

The lights from a nearby game illuminated Jisung in a flood of changing colors, matching the fireworks going off in Minho’s own chest. ( _It’s just the high of victory_ , was his hasty reasoning.)

Jisung’s hands clasped over Minho’s shoulders as if he’d wanted to pull him in a hug before thinking better of it. “Okay,” he said with a faint smile. “Let me call home first. Can I borrow change for the payphone?”

An hour later, Jisung was sitting next to Minho on their way to the older boy’s home, their knees knocking and the backs of their hands brushing with each sway of the bus.

Feeling his chest swell with affection, Minho briefly linked their pinkies together. Jisung turned to look out the window, his bashful smile visible in the glass reflection.

  
  
  


“So what are you supposed to tutor me in?” Jisung said. He sat cross-legged on Minho’s bed while hugging a Badtz-Maru plush to his stomach.

He and Minho had spent the past hour playing with Minho’s cat, Soonie, instead of whatever studying they needed to do.

Minho was slumped in his desk chair with Soonie curled in his lap. “I don’t know. English maybe?” He picked up his cat and dangled him in the air like he was christening baby Simba. Soonie wriggled free from his grasp and leapt away with an indignant meow.

“Are you good at it?” Jisung asked.

“Not really. But I guess we can go over the workbooks together?”

“If you say so.”

Minho dragged in an extra chair for Jisung to sit in at the desk, and he cracked open his Advanced English Grammar book, his mood a million miles from studious. Jisung slid his chair closer to follow Minho reading aloud the rules of the past perfect tense. The younger’s brow creased adorably in concentration.

By the third page of examples, it was clear that both boys had reached their limit for dry grammar rules.

“ _I am bored_ ,” Jisung whined in English. “ _I was bored. I will be bored. I had been bored._ ”

Minho’s eyes watered after the massive yawn he’d just unleashed. “ _Me too_.”

A knock from the door sent the boys sitting bolt upright in their chairs. The kind visage of Minho’s mother appeared in the doorway; she’d brought a plateful of sliced Asian pears.

“It’s nice to see you boys studying so well,” she said, placing the fruit on the desk.

Minho flashed her a thumbs-up.

Before closing the door behind her, she turned around and added, “Minho-yah, I’m going to the store to help out your father. There’s fresh _yaksik_ in the kitchen if you boys are hungry later.”

“Okay. Thanks, mom,” Minho said with the modest smile of a Good Son (a look he’d practiced years to perfect, effective in fending off his parents’ prodding).

With the whole apartment to themselves now and free from parental scrutiny, it didn’t take Minho long to ditch the workbook and replace it with another reading material that was more up their alley.

“You have the whole series?” Jisung’s eyes sparkled in awe at the collection of _Slam Dunk_ comics lining Minho’s bookshelf. “I’ve always wanted to read it.”

“Now you can.” Minho pulled out the first volume and tossed it to Jisung. “Feel free to read on the bed.”

Jisung plopped onto the bed with his back against the wall, and he tucked the Badtz-Maru plush under one arm while holding the book in the other. He looked at Minho expectantly and patted the empty space beside him.

Minho didn’t stand a chance against those doe eyes that seemed to cut right to his soul. He joined Jisung on the bed and eyed the book’s opening scene which he knew by heart, but when Jisung scooted closer to give Minho a better reading view, the words and art jumped off the page with a new meaning.

* * *

So far Minho’s third year of business studies rolled by uneventfully. He considered himself lucky; granted, it would have been ideal to live out his college life on campus, but commuting from home made the most logical and financial sense. His parents had let him take the reins of his academic life as he had long promised to eventually take over the family store. His peers might have called it settling for less, but to Minho, it was the path that made most sense.

Facing less academic pressure also meant that he had more time to see his friends; and most importantly, Jisung. Minho’s parents applauded their son for taking such a nice boy under his wings and shared the sentiment with Jisung’s aunt and uncle, thus allowing them to meet twice a week for tutoring on Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons.

Shockingly, Minho did manage to teach Jisung some subjects (the fate of their friendship hinged on this small detail, after all) but as soon as he sensed that Jisung was bored with their lesson, they dove straight into his comic book collection.

“Hyung,” Jisung piped up one evening when it was just the two of them in Minho’s apartment. Soonie was curled up on a textbook on the desk with his fur glowing a warm, pleasant orange under the desk lamp.

Minho had barely caught Jisung calling his name; he’d been distracted by the gripping action sequence from the manhwa he was reading.

“Hm?”

“Why do you smoke?”

Minho lifted his head to him. “Why do you ask?”

Jisung propped up his head on an elbow on the desk and scratched Soonie’s ears with his free hand. “I dunno. I kind of wish you would quit.”

Minho sighed, “I know.” He closed his book and leaned back in his chair, raising his arms over his head to stretch his cramped back. “But it’s not like I do it every day—only when I’m extra stressed.”

“That’s the problem! You’re always stressed these days.”

“Am not.”

“Then why do you smell like smoke whenever I see you?”

Feeling like he’d been pinned like some helpless moth, Minho had no good answer for that. He was saved when the clock revealed it was time for Jisung to go home.

Minho stood up first and grabbed his zip up hoodie. “C’mon, you’ll miss your bus.”

The two boys stepped into the mild spring night, and they arrived at the bus stop in time to catch the pair of headlights approaching.

As the bus door hissed open, Jisung turned around to face Minho, urgency shining in his eyes. He awkwardly clutched onto the straps of his backpack.

“Hyung... I—I wanna say sorry in advance,” he stammered.

“For what?”

“Just know that I did it because I care about you.”

Minho cocked his head, feeling lost. “Jisung-ah, what the heck are you talking about.”

The smile that Jisung gave matched his apologetic tone. “Good night, hyung.”

Minho stood on the sidewalk until the bus vanished down the road. He always stayed behind like this, to make sure that the younger was safe till the very last second he was in view, but tonight Minho was rooted to the ground by confusion more than anything.

In an unconscious urge he reached into his hoodie pocket for his cigarettes, but his hand found mostly empty space. He scowled, more than certain that he had put them in his pocket earlier that very day.

Then his fingers brushed against something hard, something that crinkled in a suspiciously familiar manner.

He huffed a resigned laugh when his hand emerged with half a dozen wrapped candies.

* * *

“ _Swel-ter-ing_ ,” Jisung read aloud from the English vocabulary book. “Adjective. Means oppressively hot.”

Minho groaned dramatically. He’d been lying on the bed with his legs thrown over Jisung’s lap. “You mean like right now? Actually, is there a stronger word than that? Cause that’s what it fucking feels like.”

“ _Hell_?”

“Yeah, that’s more like it.”

The air was thick with humidity and made breathing an act of labor. Though he’d stripped down to just shorts and a cutoff shirt, Minho desperately wanted to rid himself of any layer that touched his skin. He plucked at his shirt and fanned himself rapidly.

“Jisung-ah, you should escape this hellhole and go home. Our a/c won’t be fixed for awhile.”

“I’m good,” Jisung said. He moved to lie down next to Minho on the bed. Jisung’s bangs were plastered to his forehead, and when he pushed them back, his hair was sculpted in place by his sweat.

Minho found that cute, if a little gross. But mostly cute. Because just about everything Han Jisung did reeked of goddamn cuteness.

Despite the heat wave that threatened to melt him to the bone, Minho appreciated the summer—more specifically, this summer break that gave him more time to be with Jisung when he wasn’t tied up with helping out at the store. And it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other friends to hang with, but most of his peers had disappeared into internships (Changbin), or were perpetually busy with sports engagements (Seungmin).

Jisung rolled over on his back and opened up a volume of _Slam Dunk_.

“That again?” Minho said. He flipped over onto his stomach to let his back cool off. “Aren’t you sick of reading it by now?”

“Whatever,” Jisung grumbled. “It’s a good series.”

Minho poked Jisung’s plush cheek with a finger. “Are you sure you read it for the plot,” he teased, waggling a brow, “or to drool over the characters? I’ve seen the way you stare at Rukawa.”

The pregnant pause that followed told Minho everything he needed to know. Jisung brought the book closer to his face to hide the desperate flush that was now creeping up.

“So it’s true!” Minho cackled.

“Shut up,” Jisung said. He placed the book on his chest and turned to face Minho directly. A determination sparked in his eyes despite the fierce blush coloring his cheeks. “Fine. I admit it, okay? I think Rukawa is beautiful. Sue me for having taste.”

A heavy exhalation through his nose, then he resumed his reading.

The air between them tapered to silence again, charged with a different energy this time. Something tightened in Minho’s stomach over Jisung’s blurted confession. It wasn’t that he objected to Jisung finding another guy attractive; in fact, they’d both fawned over other men before in not so subtle ways. But this was the first time Jisung had described anyone as _beautiful_.

A voice in the back of his head heckled him with an ugly word: _jealousy_.

Over a fictional character? _Fucking ridiculous._ He dismissed the notion and buried it with the usual light-hearted banter.

“Sakuragi is hotter,” Minho said to be contrarian.

“Sorry for your blindness,” Jisung retorted, his mouth twitching in a faint smirk.

Minho inched toward Jisung until their shoulders were pressed together, and he angled his head closer for a better view of the comic till he could feel Jisung’s hair tickle his cheek. Their bodily positions weren’t very conducive to cooling off, but he wasn’t sure if it was the sweltering heat that made his skin tingle hotly all over.

His fingers twitched in a craving for a smoke, but keeping in mind whose company he was in, he reached into his pocket for his preferred craving suppressant. 

“Shiny,” Jisung commented at the foil-wrapped confection in Minho’s hand.

“By the way, you owe me like 100,000 won for stealing all my cigarettes.”

“Hey, not true!” Jisung protested. “I always replace them with candy, so we’re even.”

The truth was that Minho didn’t mind—and in a twisted way, even looked forward to—Jisung swiping his cigarettes when the older boy wasn’t looking. Jisung’s intentions were pure, plus Minho couldn’t deny the spark of bliss whenever his hand bumped into sugary confection in his pocket.

Minho took his time to unwrap the candy since it had turned sticky from incubating in his pocket. He dropped the candy in his mouth and lazily held it between his lips, pushing the lump in and out with his tongue. A pleasant fruity flavor filled his senses.

Jisung had held the book open to the same page for a while now, and when Minho turned to question him, he was immediately pinned under Jisung’s gaze that had shifted into something new—glinting with a hunger for something that Minho couldn’t name.

The sight made Minho’s heart jump.

A faint hitch a breath, then Jisung’s eyes fell to Minho’s mouth. “What flavor is it?”

“Find out for yourself,” Minho uttered the familiar challenge, pushing out the candy halfway through his lips. Despite the hammering in his chest, Minho steeled his expression to give away nothing but the usual teasing. He knew Jisung would never take the bait. This was their warped little game of chicken that they’d been playing for months.

And yet he found himself being proven wrong as the very thought crossed his mind.

“Okay,” Jisung whispered, his voice a rasp.

He lifted his head from the pillow and inched closer, stopping when he was a mere breath from Minho’s face. From this close up, Jisung glowed with the lightest sheen of sweat.

(Minho was fairly certain his own sweaty display was less elegant.)

When Minho didn’t flinch or turn away, Jisung leaned in to close the last bit of distance, his eyes lowered to reveal a fanning of pretty lashes. His lips grazed Minho’s as he gingerly grasped the candy between his teeth; a small noise of frustration left him when it didn’t budge. Jisung stilled for a moment as if to adjust his strategy, then flicked his tongue against Minho’s teeth to finally dislodge the sugary lump, sucking lightly to secure it between his own lips.

His mouth curled in a triumphant smile around the candy he had successfully extracted—the candy that glistened with their shared spit. Minho didn’t know what to make of that.

He swallowed thickly.

“Apple,” Jisung said breezily. The confection clacked lightly against his teeth as he spoke. “Do I get a prize for guessing right?”

“Yeah, I have your prize right here.”

Pushing past any tripped-up feelings, Minho pulled Jisung in a headlock and rubbed his knuckles on his head.

“Agh!” Jisung laughed while swatting him away and smoothing down his own hair. “Rukawa would never be this mean.”

Minho stuck out his tongue. “If you like him so much, why don’t you marry him?”

“Ew?? I’m gonna pretend you didn’t use that corny ass line on me.”

“Whatever. I’m prettier than Rukawa anyway.”

That earned a chuckle from Jisung, though he neither confirmed nor denied Minho’s statement. He opened up the comic book to where he’d left off.

“Lemme see,” Minho said, pulling the corner of the book, suddenly feeling petulant for his attention.

Jisung easily obliged. He turned his body toward Minho and moved the book closer to the older boy’s side.

It made no sense for two people to be lying this close to each other in the middle of a heat wave, but Minho didn’t protest when Jisung swung a leg over and tangled their limbs.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” Jisung whispered as he turned another page.

Heat rose in Minho’s cheeks before he registered that Jisung was talking about the book.

With his senses clouded by the scent of apple flavored candy, Minho’s vision lingered on the same scene of Sakuragi making a jump shot. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d lost the plot.

* * *

The heat wave passed, but Minho’s apartment remained a veritable kiln. Heat wave or not, summer days without a working air conditioner turned any living space into a sauna. Minho felt sanest at night when the heat and humidity weren’t as stifling.

Minho and Jisung had arrived at the bus stop shelter earlier than usual to escape the unbearable stuffiness of the older boy’s home. They sat lengthwise on the bench with Jisung’s discman in between them and a crescent moon above, and they shared the same pair of earphones. The bright and happy chords of Cool’s “Woman on the Beach” entertained their ears.

“I wanna visit the beach,” Minho said as he handed the earbud back to Jisung.

“I thought you couldn’t swim?”

“I can’t. But I mean that I wanna visit at night, when no one else is around. Not to swim but just to see how it looks. I’ve never seen the sea at night.” He absently scratched his ear lobe. “Which is dumb now that I think of it, since I have a fear of water.”

“Is that why you don’t shower?”

Jisung laughed, raising his arms to defend himself from the inevitable attack.

“Shut it, you dweeb,” Minho chortled and gave Jisung’s shoulder a playful shove. “For clarification, _large bodies of water_ freak me out. It’s a legit phobia!”

“I think I get it though. It’s like... sometimes you wanna experience something terrifying but... riveting? Inspiring?”

Something sank in Minho’s chest as he watched Jisung and reflected on all that he’d come to adore about the younger. His endearing fashion sense, for one; right now he wore an _Akira_ graphic t-shirt over loose-fitting shorts, and his feet were clad in Air Jordans that were at least two sizes too big. The night winds caused his shirt to billow around his small frame, making him look even smaller, more vulnerable.

Jisung tapped his lower lip in thought. “Terrifying but...”

“Beautiful,” Minho finished for him.

Jisung paused, his expression unreadable in the dark.

“Yeah,” he finally agreed.

* * *

Minho knew he was probably staring at Jisung as if he had grown another head, but he couldn’t help repeating what Jisung had just said.

“You flunked your first semester?!”

Jisung shielded his eyes from the dazzling sun and took another bite of his _bungeo-ppang_. He hoisted himself onto their usual sidewalk railing. “Are you really surprised? It’s not like we got much studying done together.”

“Yeah, but—” Minho scratched the back of his head and sighed, leaning against the railing instead of hopping onto it. “I thought you’d at least pass your classes!” He stared down at his own half-eaten _bungeo-ppang_ and felt his appetite being eclipsed by guilt. “Sorry for being such a shitty hyung.”

Jisung scowled in disapproval. “You’re not.”

“I should have pressured you to study harder.”

“Psh. Then I would have stopped hanging out with you.”

“And maybe that’s for the better. I’m obviously a terrible influence on the youths.” Minho took a joyless bite of the fish-shaped bread.

“It’s not you, hyung,” Jisung assured in exasperation. “Comp sci just isn’t my jam.”

“So what will you do now? Enlist?”

Jisung snorted. “I wish. My uncle said I’ll be privately tutored for a while at my parents’ wishes. Then I guess I’ll transfer to another school and try not to flunk out of that one too.”

Not wishing to overstep boundaries or potentially pick at old scars, Minho prodded him gently with the obvious question. “What about pursuing music?”

The smile that Jisung put on didn’t reach his eyes.

“Maybe. I might audition to become an idol. It’ll be nice to have an army of devoted fangirls at my behest. What do you think?”

“Don’t leave out your fan _boys_ ,” Minho said, nudging him with an elbow. “You know I’d be president of your fan club.”

Jisung laughed and bounced his heels off the metal bars. “Thanks, hyung. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

* * *

“Happy birthday!”

Distracted from the shooting game, Minho removed his finger from the trigger and lowered the plastic handgun into the machine holster. Jisung had fished out something from his backpack.

Minho blinked several times at the gift-wrapped lump of package that was placed in his hands. It weighed heavy in his palms, and he could hear the jangling of what sounded like jostling coins.

He threw a confused look at Jisung and said, “My birthday isn’t for another three weeks.”

“I know, dummy. But I’ll be in Malaysia by then, remember?”

Minho did remember, but it wasn’t a detail he liked to dwell on ever since Jisung had told him of his travel plans last week. He was to leave for Malaysia after this weekend to visit his parents and older brother, and would be back at some nebulous point in time at the end of the year.

The screen of the shooting game annoyingly flashed “GAME OVER!”.

The air inside the arcade was suddenly stifling, so Minho suggested taking a breather outside.

“Go on, open it,” Jisung said as soon as they stepped in the autumn air.

Minho gave the package a slight shake that elicited a chorus of jangling metal. “Are you donating your piggy bank to me?”

Jisung rolled his eyes as Minho proceeded to rip away the layers of gift wrap until a singular jar was revealed. More specifically, it was the jar of citron tea— _yujacha_ —that Minho had given to Jisung months ago when the younger had caught a cold. The label was covered up with colorful doodles of Soonie and Minho’s original character Jureumi, all crudely drawn but imbued with heart. Instead of _yuja_ marmalade, a pile of arcade coins was packed inside the jar.

“Whoa,” Minho said, speechless at first, until delighted laughter bubbled from his chest.

“Something to keep you busy while I’m gone,” Jisung said.

Minho tried not to focus on the way his heart sank at those last three words. Clutching the precious jar to his chest, he couldn’t help but feel that his own birthday gift to Jisung last month—a poster of _Slam Dunk_ —paled pitifully in comparison. The gift he himself received was equal parts ridiculous and thoughtful, much like Han Jisung himself.

Minho brushed his knuckles to Jisung’s cheek that had turned rosy. “Thank you. I’ll be a pro at Street Fighter by the time you come back.”

* * *

Minho wondered if Jisung hadn’t carried with him some sort of time-warping gravitational force, because without him around, time had slowed to an inexplicable crawl. Nonetheless, Minho powered through the fall semester while the rest of the world buzzed in nervous anticipation of Y2K; he kept his head down and focused on finishing up his paper on business analytics as winter break approached.

The media frenzy over Y2K reached a crescendo on New Year’s Eve. While his parents were glued to the TV watching newscasters describe (often in gruesome detail) the chaos that could unfold should computers fail worldwide, Minho tried his best to ignore the hysteria by drowning himself in the latest volume of _Hikaru no Go_.

It was too bad that Jisung wasn’t here to read this with him, Minho thought distractedly. He would’ve loved it.

_Tink._

He dropped the book to his chest and lifted his head at the noise.

Another _tink_ from the window, louder this time.

His first thought was that of a bird flying into his window, but in the dead of winter? Not likely.

Which led his imagination to more sinister possibilities. He’d seen enough teen horror flicks to know the consequences of letting one’s guard down, and being located a mere two floors up, his apartment would’ve been easy for any masked antagonist to break into.

He drew a deep breath to temper his imagination. He pushed himself out of bed and slowly reached for the baseball bat leaning in the corner against the bookshelf.

_Tink!_

With his muscles tensed for action and a hand firmly gripped around the bat, he peeked through the window blinds.

There was nothing but black.

A scowl settled on his face as he opened the blinds and squinted at the darkness outside—until he caught a pair of waving arms below. He quickly discerned that the arms were attached to a very familiar boy.

“The hell...?” Minho whispered to himself. He set down the bat to raise open the window, and was greeted with a gust of icy air.

“Hyung! It’s me!” Jisung whisper-shouted from below.

Minho blinked hard to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. His mouth curved in an eager grin once he confirmed that it was indeed his friend, in the flesh, after nearly three months of absence.

“You’re back?!” Minho said, leaning farther out of the window in excitement.

Jisung bounced on the balls of his feet and frantically waved at him to come down.

“Alright, fine,” Minho laughed, realizing the bizarre scenario he was in. The previously imagined slasher flick had turned into an ’80s teen romcom. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He picked up a sweatshirt to throw on, but nixed it in favor of his favorite crew neck sweater and pair of fitted jeans. (Just because Jisung was his friend didn’t mean Minho could present himself like a slob.) He slipped into his parka and hurried down the flights of stairs.

He’d taken two steps outside before he was stopped by two arms enveloping him in a bear hug.

“Hyung, hyung, hyung,” Jisung said into the crook of his neck, swaying their bodies side to side as they clung to each other.

“What, what, what.”

After some more babbled exchanges, Minho stepped back, still holding onto Jisung’s arms. The younger was thoroughly dressed for the wintry weather in a puffer jacket and adorable knitted hat with flaps over the ears, and a heavily stuffed backpack was slung over his shoulders.

Minho’s chest twinged at the sight. He’d missed this so much. He’d missed Jisung.

He spoke as he gently pulled the earflap of Jisung’s hat. “Long time no see. Are your aunt and uncle okay with you being here?”

“It’s Y2K eve,” Jisung dodged the question, releasing clouds of breath in the air. “It could be the last night of our lives as we know it.”

“You think something bad will happen?”

Jisung’s eyes shined with more curiosity than fear. “I don’t know. But we have just a few hours before we find out, right?” He reached down to take Minho’s hand and began to lead them down the darkened street.

“Jisung-ah?”

“I have a surprise for you, hyung.”

“Where are we going?”

A squeeze to Minho’s hand. “You’ll see.”

The words only made Minho’s heart gallop faster in anticipation.

Minho followed Jisung onto a bus, and when he’d calmed down enough from having been whisked away out of the blue, he asked how the other had been doing. Jisung spoke of the time spent with his older brother (whom it was clear Jisung was extremely fond of) and the Malaysian foods he fell in love with, though avoiding mentioning his parents. Knowing how strict they were, Minho figured it was fair.

A bus transfer later, they stepped into a less familiar part of town. They cut through several blocks until the outline of a rectangular and minimalist style building came into view. It was separated from the other residential parts of the neighborhood.

“Isn’t that the recreation center?” Minho said.

Jisung nodded. The building was shrouded in darkness save for a few outdoor lights spaced out on the walls.

“Is that where we’re headed?”

Another nod.

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna break in,” Minho said, a hint of a nervous wobble in his voice. “I’d rather not spend my New Year’s eve in a jail cell.”

Instead of answering, Jisung led them through the parking lot and toward the back entrance. Minho shot a cursory peek through the windows as he passed by, but he could only see pitch black beyond the warped reflection of his moving figure.

They stopped when they reached a metal door. Jisung pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked the door with a click that echoed too loudly in the still night air. Trepidation snowballed in Minho’s gut.

“What the hell? Where did you get that?” Minho said through his teeth. He half-expected to be interrupted by police sirens at any moment now.

“A hyung I know owed me a favor,” Jisung vaguely offered. He raised his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, flicked on a mini flashlight, and motioned Minho to follow inside.

Minho took a deep breath and walked in.

Guided by the small cone of light, they navigated through empty hallways of foreboding dark, keeping their footsteps light.

They walked through what appeared to be a changing room with rows of lockers. Finally Jisung stopped when they reached wooden double doors, which he unlocked with another key. He pushed through the doors with a whispered “ _ta-da”_.

The faint scent of chlorine hit Minho’s nose before he recognized the dull glimmer of still water before him.

Confusion weighed down his tongue, so Minho watched Jisung set his backpack on the tiled floor and begin to pull out its contents. He unfurled a beach towel by the pool’s edge and placed a handful of small seashells around it.

Minho blinked down at the crouched boy. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

“You said you wanted to see the ocean at night, right?” Jisung tossed a crab plush at Minho to catch, but it ricocheted out of Minho’s grasp and landed on the towel. “Since I can’t take us to an actual beach, I figured this would be the next best thing.”

He tilted his head up at the older with a fond gaze. Honeyed warmth filled Minho to the core. It took several moments to find his voice again.

“I... you didn’t have to do this,” Minho said. He was nonetheless touched by the gesture and hoped the softness in his tone conveyed it. “You should’ve done something that _you_ wanna do.”

“I am.” Jisung rummaged through the bag again and tossed him a piece of fabric: a pair of dark blue swimming trunks. “You can wear this, hyung.”

Minho squinted, holding it up gingerly between his forefinger and thumb. “Is this yours? How do I know you haven’t peed in it before?”

“It’s clean, you dork,” Jisung said with an eye roll. “And I barely wore it once since it’s too big on me.”

“Are you saying I have a fat ass?”

“Maybe.”

Sputtering a laugh, Jisung shot up and retreated farther along the pool to escape retaliation.

The hall was cavernous and pitch-dark save for the moonlight spilling in through the row of long windows. Jisung quietly shed his layers of winter clothing at the far corner of the swimming pool. Not wishing to invade his privacy, Minho turned away and stripped off his own jacket and toed off his sneakers and socks, though going no further than that.

The sound of water splashing cut through the silence. Minho turned around to see Jisung surfacing with a brisk head shake, his thick hair flattened wetly over his face. He pushed the strands back from his eyes and leisurely paddled toward the other end of the pool.

“Hyung-ah, get in the water! The temperature is perfect for swimming!”

Minho sat on the beach towel and tossed the crab plush between his hands. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Party pooper.”

After swimming two laps, Jisung emerged from the pool and padded across the tiled floor, leaving a trail of dripping water behind. The red hue of his swim trunks matched the menace twinkling in his eyes as he approached the older boy.

“Don’t—!” Minho tried to shield himself with his arms, but it was too late. A vigorous head shake sent a hail of droplets splashing onto his once perfectly dry sweater and jeans. He made a motion to fling one of the seashells at Jisung, then absently pocketed it seeing that the younger had already escaped into the pool. Jisung’s mirthful laughter echoed throughout the hall.

Minho sat back on his hands and observed Jisung drift through the water in lazy backstrokes, the moonlight highlighting the topography of lithe muscle and the ripples of water with each smooth motion.

Minho’s stomach felt a rippling of its own from hunger. He rummaged through Jisung’s backpack in hopes to find a snack stowed away, but he found Jisung’s trusty discman instead.

The H.O.T sticker had mostly peeled away and clung to the CD player like a vestige of teenage obsession. He then noticed that another set of initials had been carved next to the _HJS_ on the discman: _LMH_.

Tracing the letters with his finger, he couldn’t resist the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth.

He put on Jisung’s earphones and pressed play.

The piano ballad that came on wasn’t familiar; its lyrics spoke of a weary snail heading toward the ocean at the world’s end, with only the memory of waves to guide it.

He lay down on his back on the towel, closed his eyes, and played the track on loop.

  
  
  


“Hyung?”

Minho slowly blinked once, twice, and opened his bleary eyes. Had he fallen asleep?

“It’s almost midnight.”

Jisung was crouched beside him, his wet hair adorably mussed.

“Oh shit,” Minho mumbled as he sat up and pulled out the earphones. The clock that hung on the near wall told him there was 15 minutes left before the new year.

“Come in the water with me,” Jisung said, lightly grasping Minho by the arm. “Pleeeeease.”

“You know I can’t swim.”

“You don’t have to. We can chill in the shallow end.”

The pout on Jisung’s face pushed out his cheeks adorably. Minho’s hand moved to caress the younger’s face, but he diverted the motion to push himself up off the floor while grabbing the spare swim trunks.

“Fine,” Minho yielded, feeling his face flush a little. “Now go away so I can change.”

Jisung gasped in faux offense. “I’m an honorable man!” He slapped his hands over his eyes and turned on his heel.

Not entirely trusting the honor system, Minho headed toward the darker corner beyond the moonlight’s reach, and he stripped off his clothes in record time and hopped into the swim trunks, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste. The air that hit his skin was cooler than expected. He hugged his own torso to quell the goosebumps and tentatively shuffled toward the shallow end of the pool.

“Cannonball!” Jisung yelled as he launched into the air, tucked his knees to his chest and dive bombed into the water. When he resurfaced, he waded toward Minho who had barely dipped a foot in.

“You’re cute when you’re scared,” Jisung teased.

Minho shot him a glare. “Shut up, Han Jisung.”

With slow, deliberate breaths he waded farther into the pool till the water hit his navel. His stomach dropped him when his balance wobbled slightly, and his hand flailed out to grab the edge of the pool.

Jisung extended his hand to him over the water. “Just a bit more, hyung.”

Releasing a deep exhale, Minho inched ahead once more, the water now rising to his chest. Mild panic rushed through his system at the dense pressure around his lungs—the sensation he most dreaded—tricking him to thinking he was suffocating. With eyes squeezed tightly shut, he braced himself for retreat, though his feet moved no quicker than as if they were fighting quicksand.

A warm hand caught his own. Jisung’s voice was gentle but sure. 

“Don’t worry hyung, I got you.”

“I swear to god if I drown—”

“I promise to say only glowing things at your funeral.”

Minho pried an eye open. “Brat.”

Jisung’s hands found Minho’s waist to steady him. “Think you can handle going deeper?”

“No!” Minho’s eyes snapped wide open and his hands flew up to clutch Jisung’s shoulders. “Just... stay here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Jisung then glanced up at the clock. “Five minutes till doomsday.” A rueful smile punctuated his words.

“Don’t say that.”

“Would Y2K really be so bad?”

Minho raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“The world would stop in its tracks, right?” Jisung’s eyes gleamed in half uncertainty, half wonder. “Trains would stop running, planes would be grounded, no cars in the streets. We’d all stop running away from each other. All the world’s cities would go dark and we could finally see the stars in the sky.”

“You make the apocalypse sound romantic.”

“Or maybe... maybe I don’t want this moment to end. Maybe I just want to stay like this with you, hyung.”

“In a crappy public swimming pool?” Minho jested, though his own heart pounded in his chest with such force he could feel it in his toes.

Jisung took a step closer, gently stirring the water around him. The air between them was charged. Goosebumps resurfaced on Minho’s skin.

Words failed Minho in the face of such vulnerability, so he let his actions do the talking. The hands that gripped Jisung’s shoulders slid back until his fingers were interlaced behind the younger’s neck, and he tilted his head and leaned forward, slow enough to give the other time to turn away. He stopped when his breath ghosted Jisung’s lips.

He wasn’t sure who closed that last bit of distance, but it was a trivial detail in the scheme of things. Jisung’s lips were soft and assured against his own. It wasn’t Minho’s first kiss, though he thought it could be his most memorable; one that tasted of chlorine and moonlight.

A generous splash of water hit Minho’s face as soon as their bodies separated. Before either could take another breath, the two were embroiled in a fierce water fight. Minho’s water slapping technique lacked finesse, but in the end his brute force sent Jisung swimming away crying foul.

Having inhaled enough chlorinated water to last him for a while, Minho climbed out of the pool and picked up one of the body towels that Jisung had brought. After completing a few more laps, Jisung followed suit. They dried themselves off in silence and changed back into their clothes on opposite ends of the pool.

“I love you, hyung.”

It was almost as though Jisung pushed out the words as an afterthought. Minho had zipped up his jacket and was folding up the beach towel when the words were uttered from close behind, and he spun around where he stood.

Jisung had changed back into a simple plaid shirt and distressed jeans, and was hugging his jacket to his chest. He looked up with the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Minho stood anchored to the moment with his mouth slightly agape. Those three words hadn’t crossed his mind—at least not in any concrete way—nor had he practiced a pithy response to such a declaration.

He answered in the only way that made sense to him in that moment: by holding Jisung’s jacket open for him and helping the younger bundle up, though his hands trembled slightly from the weight of the confession. He wrapped Jisung’s scarf snugly around his neck and warned him not to linger outside too long with his hair in its damp state. It was easy to avert Jisung’s searching gaze in the shadowed corner of the pool hall in which they stood.

But Minho also knew that Jisung deserved a proper answer, so he made a silent promise to untangle his own feelings and figure out how those three words fit between then.

The two boys packed up their things and covered up their tracks, making their exit back into the brisk coldness of night without further fuss.

“Hey,” Minho said as they walked away from the building, “since it’s winter break again, wanna hang at the arcade for old time’s sake? I’m free on Tuesday.”

Jisung gently bumped his shoulder to Minho’s. “Those were the best times.”

Minho hummed in agreement, then looked all around him. It was well past midnight—nothing had changed. No sirens, no blackouts, no crowd hysterically crying in the streets. Lights glowed warmly from nearby houses. The streetlights cast their lights dutifully without interruption.

The same thought seemed to be running through Jisung’s mind at that moment. He swiveled his head this way and that as if searching for anything out of place. He was answered with the mundane and distant barking of a dog, and the few cars that passed them by traveled at a perfectly normal speed.

Perhaps it was too soon to tell, but for all the hysteria that had surrounded Y2K, the new millennium was off to a rather anticlimactic start. Minho looked forward to going home and celebrating by hugging his cat.

He offered to walk Jisung to his bus stop, but the other declined since their respective stops lay in opposite directions.

“Alright,” Minho said, poking a gloved finger to Jisung’s cheek. “See you Tuesday at noon?”

“Get home safe,” Jisung said as he gave a parting wave, his eyes turning into shimmering crescents.

* * *

Minho glanced at his pager for the umpteenth time on Tuesday afternoon.

He had opted to kill time playing Street Fighter while waiting for Jisung to arrive, and accidentally fell into a winning streak which kept him busy for a while. Though it was just his luck to put on his best performance when Jisung wasn’t around to witness it.

“Whoa, you’re good,” a teenage girl with heavy bangs remarked over his shoulder.

Unable to shake the jittery feeling in his stomach, he yielded his spot to the girl.

“Have fun,” he said, dropping a game token in her hand.

He pushed out of the stuffy arcade and leaned against the wall near the entrance, keeping an eye out for any signs of the younger boy.

Another half hour passed of watching strangers walk in and out of the arcade. He bought _tteokbokki_ on a stick to quell the hunger that had risen from the prolonged wait. Something was off. Jisung was never this late, and if he couldn’t make it, he’d always made sure to page him with a heads-up.

 _Maybe he got sick_ , Minho thought as he tossed the wooden skewer into the trash. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Jisung had caught a nasty cold that night after swimming and failing to dry off properly. Minho pondered dropping off some citron tea for him just in case.

He stopped by his parents’ shop to pick up a jarful of _yujacha_ and dialed Jisung’s home number from the backroom.

“Hello?” a woman’s gentle voice answered. Jisung’s aunt, he presumed.

“Mrs. Han?” he spoke into the phone. “This is Lee Minho.”

“Ah, Minho, it’s been awhile. How can I help?”

“Sorry for the disturbance, but is Jisung there?”

A brief pause. “Jisung isn’t here.”

“Oh, I see,” Minho said, looping a finger around the phone cord. “When would be a good time to call back?”

A heavier silence crackled over the line before she continued. “Minho-yah, you don’t know?”

A faint unease settled in his gut; he sat up straighter in his chair. “About what?”

“He’s gone to America. He’ll be living with his relatives there from now on.”

Minho rapidly blinked a few times, unable to process what he had just heard. “Wait, I don’t underst—living in America? As in permanently?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His grip on the phone tightened and his face had gone rigid in rapidly growing confusion. “Sorry, but I still don’t... this is all so sudden. When did he...?”

“He left the day before yesterday.”

“But I just saw him over the weekend—”

The sigh that the older woman let out was drenched in sympathy. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I thought Jisungie would’ve told you of all people. His family had been planning his move ever since he was pulled from school.”

The phone receiver felt too heavy to hold in his hand. None of this made any goddamn sense. It seemed a mere blink ago that he’d seen a very real Jisung wave at him under a very real new year’s sky, and his chest seized up with a cold dissonance; to think that while he was asleep in the comfort of his own bed, Jisung had already been lost to him by an unknowable distance.

_Why hadn’t Jisung told him?_

Even worse—what if Jisung _had_ told him in his own way and Minho had been too foolish to grasp it? His mind stumbled through the night at the swimming pool, desperate for any clues to make sense of this.

Suddenly, Minho recalled the younger boy’s words with aching clarity.

_“...Trains would stop running, planes would be grounded... Maybe I just want to stay like this with you, hyung.”_

His vision began to blur with wetness, but he kept his voice steady over the line. “Is there an address or number I can reach him at?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share. His education is top priority now, and his parents instructed that he cut all ties here... I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh... I... yes. I understand.”

He thanked the older woman with words that were empty and polite, and she promised to pass along his well wishes to Jisung before ending the call.

He stared blankly at the jar of _yujacha_ that he had so easily imagined he could place in Jisung’s own hands.

Minho didn’t understand at all.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Minho had a fifty-fifty chance.

Two tiles remained on the Minesweeper board; one of them hid a bomb.

With brow knitted in concentration, he muttered an _eeny-meeny-miny-moe_ under his breath, and his mouse cursor tentatively hovered over the tile he’d landed on.

“Pardon me, where can I find chaga mushrooms?” a voice piped up at the same time the land mine exploded.

Minho gave a tiny yelp as he snapped his attention to the owner of said voice. A middle-aged woman with elegantly styled hair eyed him patiently.

He straightened his posture behind the counter and gestured toward the left side of the shop, clearing his throat. “Right over there, ma’am. Next to the herbal teas.”

The woman nodded in thanks, and a few minutes later she returned with two packs of the dried mushrooms. Minho rang her up and wished her a pleasant day as he handed her the shopping bag.

He minimized the point of sale software on the screen and brought up a new Minesweeper game, but the woman continued to linger in his peripheral vision, clutching her designer handbag with her free hand. She opened her mouth as if to say something else then closed it hesitantly.

Minho closed out of the game and offered the woman his best customer service smile. “Can I help you with something else?”

“Sorry, but... I couldn’t help notice you’re such a handsome young man.”

With his 29th birthday lying in wait this year, the “young” part of the compliment seemed questionable, but he kept that to himself and huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you.”

He’d received enough compliments from customers over the years to know that one of two scenarios could unfold: the lady would smile and go on her way, or she’d casually mention her daughter who happened to be seeking a suitable marriage partner.

Minho really hoped it would be the former.

“I see you don’t have a ring on your finger.” The woman’s saccharine tone was all too familiar.

A cringe washed over him, though he maintained his perfunctory smile.

The woman continued on with her predictable script. “Coincidentally, my daughter is also single.”

_Shocking._

Minho gave a polite nod, and he turned to the computer screen and randomly clicked his mouse on the kitten-themed wallpaper of the desktop, hoping the other would get the hint.

She didn’t.

“She recently graduated with a masters in sociology. Beauty _and_ brains, that one. Would you like to see a picture of her, dear?”

All Minho could do was smile stiffly as she flipped open her phone and pulled up a pixelated portrait of a young woman giving a V-sign. She was indeed attractive, but far from his type.

“That’s a nice photo,” Minho said in a neutral tone. “Is there anything else I can help you with, ma’am?”

The woman leaned across the counter and stage whispered, “She’s even prettier in person. I’ll make sure to bring her with me next time.”

“Please do,” Minho said with a grimace of a smile that implored the opposite.

* * *

The guitar solo seemed to go on _forever_.

Sweat beads began to prick the back of Minho’s neck from the stuffy air of the venue. The small but impassioned crowd cheered over the final sustained guitar note, and the lead singer mumbled small talk to the audience as his bandmates readied themselves for the next song.

“What about him?” Changbin said into Minho’s ear as he pointed at the lanky bassist. “He seems like your type.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “This is a music show, not a meat market if you haven’t noticed.”

Changbin swatted Minho’s arm. “I’m only trying to widen your social circle! I can’t be the only one you drag to these sweaty ass concerts on the weekends. Being your friend is a lot of fucking work, and I’m a booked and busy man.”

“How dare you? I’m low fucking maintenance, thank you very much. Like a cat.”

“There’s gotta be some cute, decent, non-straight guy who doesn’t have a ton of baggage.” Changbin furrowed his brow in thought as he scanned the sweaty crowd around them. His gaze landed back on Minho, who was chewing his bottom lip and staring back at Changbin with a deadpan expression. In that same moment, the electric guitarist blasted the chords to the next song, drawing an eruption of excited cheers from the crowd.

Changbin’s eyes morphed into saucers, and he raised his hands up defensively. “Don’t look at me, hyung! You’re the last person I wanna date.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Seo Changbin. Rest assured the feeling’s mutual,” Minho huffed, offended that the other could even entertain the thought. A surge of pettiness drove him to continue, “By the way, you’re as single as me last time I checked. Why don’t _you_ find yourself someone first before you start playing matchmaker.”

“Listen, if you can find someone who’s mind-blowingly gorgeous yet down-to-earth and likes me for my personality and killer pecs, then by all means introduce them to me.”

Minho tested the claim by poking a finger to each of Changbin’s pectoral muscles. He had to admit they were pretty damn solid.

The two turned their attention back to the stage, and the song had reached the guitar solo bridge when Changbin piped up again, quieter this time.

“Actually, there’s someone else I’ve wanted to introduce you to for awhile. His name is Hyunjin, a dongsaeng friend I met in one of my club gigs.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “Yet you don’t sound so convinced.”

“He’s... a good guy. I didn’t wanna just dangle him in front of you like some piece of meat.”

“Is he hot?”

Changbin snorted and crossed his arms. “Like I said—not a piece of meat. But yeah, he’s not lacking in the looks department by any means.” He paused to let another eruption of cheers die down. “He’s genuinely a good egg, and he said he’s ready to date someone.”

“And that someone can’t be you?”

Changbin looked to somewhere in the crowd, his gaze unfocused. “He’s not interested in me in that way.”

The band started up another song, slower in tempo. The couple who’d been standing in front of Minho intertwined their hands and swayed to the beat.

Minho exhaled deeply through his nose. “I’ll think about it.”

  
  
  


The concert left Minho with a tepid impression (the band definitely sounded better on CD) and a nagging ringing in his ears. He was getting too old to tolerate such decibel levels up close.

As he took a cab home, he received a call from Jeongin, his part-time employee at the health food store, who summed up the activities for the day and confirmed that he had closed up the shop without a hitch.

“Jeongin-ah,” Minho said as he watched the skyline pass by, “do you think I’m high maintenance?”

A brief silence settled over the line. “As a hyung or as a boss?”

“Either.”

“You’re a chill boss.”

“What about as a hyung?”

“Ooh, gotta jet. Good night, hyung!” Jeongin cheerfully said before ending the call.

  
  


A soft meow—a welcome sound following a hectic evening—came from the other side of the door as soon as Minho turned the key. He flicked on the lights of his apartment and was greeted by an orange and white cat running up to nuzzle his ankle.

“Hey Doongie,” he said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “As expected, there’s only you in my life.”

After feeding Doongie, he heated leftover pasta from the fridge and ate in front of the TV as he mindlessly watched the late night news. The screen transitioned to a beer commercial set to the music of “Close”, an English song that had wormed its way into Minho’s ears countless times last year; the catchy hook was sure to plague him again tonight, to his mild irritation. He shut off the TV and let Doongie lick up bits of leftover meat sauce from the plate.

He washed up and headed to bed a little past one a.m. Stripping down to his boxers, he faceplanted in a spread eagle position onto the plush bed, emptying his mind of the past 24 hours with a heavy sigh. Doongie hopped up and curled up on the pillow by his head.

He rolled onto his back and reached to turn off the night lamp on the bedside table, but his hand picked up the seashell that lay there—a small and elegant spiral of white and coral pink, a memento he’d accidentally swiped on New Year’s Eve seven years ago. He held it up to the light then brought it to his ear, and instead of the ocean waves, he listened for the sound of splashing pool water and an old friend’s laughter.

* * *

As promised, the female customer from the other day returned, though conspicuously without the promised daughter in tow.

“Hi again, dear,” she said, pointedly adjusting her oversized pair of designer sunglasses. She placed a box of red ginseng extract on the counter, one of the most expensive items in the store. It was undoubtedly a ploy to win his favor, but Minho figured he might as well earn some extra won while suffering her matchmaking attempt.

“I’m afraid my Yeona was feeling under the weather, so she couldn’t make it.”

“That’s too bad,” Minho smiled as he accepted her credit card.

“In the meantime, may I ask what your blood type is?”

“My what—?”

“Don’t tell me you’re B. My daughter’s ex was B, and he was an absolute disgrace. Couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months. Type B men don’t have any sense or ambition, I tell you.”

Minho forced out another smile, swiping the card a little too aggressively. “I’m type O, ma’am.”

“Oh, thank heavens!” She clasped her hands together. “I had a feeling that you might be. You seem like the responsible sort. I’m sure women are falling on their knees left and right, begging you to marry them.”

His memory flashed back to three weekends ago and the one-night stand that had ensued after venturing to a local bar. Someone had fallen on his knees all right, but it was no woman, and he certainly wasn’t begging for Minho’s hand in marriage.

Ignoring the devil on his shoulder that dared him to say it aloud, he finished the transaction and pushed the shopping bag across the counter. “Have a good day, ma’am.” _For the love of god, please leave._

A shrill ringtone pierced the air, to which the woman reached into her purse and snapped open her phone.

“Ah, Yeona! I was just talking about you... Yes, that handsome young man from the health store. I’m with him right now, actually.” She lowered her sunglasses and threw him an exaggerated wink. A few customers who’d been browsing the aisles glanced at them curiously.

Minho smiled as he gripped the edge of the counter.

“Sweetheart,” the woman continued in a decibel too loud for private conversation, “just listen to me... I assure you this man is very handsome, and very employed!... I know, dear, but now’s the perfect time for marriage... You won’t be young and beautiful forever...”

It took all of Minho’s might not to faceplant onto the counter.

“Let me pick up another box of that ginseng,” she whispered to him away from the phone. “Be right back!” She hurried off with a wave, wiggling each finger at him.

He rang up another customer (who barely uttered a word to his relief) and flipped open his phone to a new text message received.

_From Changbin:_

_Critical update, Hyunjin is allergic 2 cats. Dealbreaker?_

Minho snapped his phone shut, stuffing it in his back pocket.

He felt as though the universe were conspiring to meddle behind his back; but the problem was that his life wasn’t a romcom, and he wasn’t some plucky yet lovable protagonist played by Meg Ryan who got the guy in the end.

Sometimes his idea of a fun evening was watching a drama with a glass of wine and jerking off to half-baked fantasies featuring the lead actor of said drama. It wasn’t a fairytale romance, but so fucking what?

He leaned his elbows on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. He just wanted everyone to get off his goddamn back.

As another box of ginseng was placed in front of him, he decided he had to draw the line before things got out of hand. Give the woman another inch and before he knew it, he’d find himself ring shopping for a wedding he didn’t agree to.

He looked down and placed both hands flat against the counter in firm resolve before imparting the next words.

“Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m not looking to get married—”

“I haven’t even taken you out to dinner,” came a reply.

Minho lifted his gaze to a pair of wide eyes blinking at him.

Those eyes and that voice most definitely did _not_ belong to the female customer. Minho’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the familiar features: round cheeks offset by sharp jawline, black hair that looked soft to the touch, its length a little shorter than he’d remembered. But it was the eyes, gleaming earnestly, that were unmistakable.

Feeling like his lungs had caved in, it took him a moment to find his breath again. A tangle of words jammed up in his throat until he managed to stammer out a useless question.

“It’s—it’s you?”

“It’s me,” Jisung said, his smile soft.

Minho stared openly at the man standing before him, who might as well have time traveled to this moment.

The air was thick with their shared anticipation. Minho finally willed his brain to unfreeze and walked around the counter, stopping within a step of the other man.

“Hey,” Minho released a shaky breath.

“Hey yourself.”

The moment lay somewhere between reality and surreality; everything about Jisung was familiar yet subtly shaped new by the passage of time. He had grown a little taller and his frame had become a little broader, the shape of his face a little more defined. Minho had kept the few centimeters he’d had over him, though, and there was a small comfort in knowing that detail hadn’t changed.

The silence between them lingered until Jisung’s smile began to fall, his eyes dimming in uncertainty. Minho’s heart seized up to think that his reticence could be mistaken for rejection. He finally stepped forward and pulled the other in a firm embrace, and as soon as their bodies touched, Jisung exhaled sharply against Minho’s neck as if he’d been holding his breath in nervous anticipation.

Minho pressed Jisung closer to his chest and his hands tentatively gripped the fabric of Jisung’s jacket, seeking reassurance that he wouldn’t vanish under his touch—that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of the mind.

Their impromptu reunion was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind. The woman who aspired to be Minho’s future in-law lowered her sunglasses and pointedly stared at Minho, then at Jisung, then back at Minho. She held up another box of ginseng extract at him in a silent bid for his attention.

Minho clenched his jaw, counted to three under his breath, and relaxed again with a deep breath. He released Jisung from his arms while glancing at him with a wordless apology.

“I forgot to mention there’s a buy-one-get-one sale,” he said to the woman as a means to get her out of his hair at all costs. “That one’s yours to keep at no charge, ma’am.”

The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. “Oh? But—”

“Have a pleasant day,” Minho said as he hurriedly ushered her toward the exit.

“I’ll be back with my daught—”

“Goodbye!”

Minho politely but firmly shut the door behind her. _Free at fucking last._

When Minho returned to his station, Jisung quirked an eyebrow to question what had just happened, to which Minho shrugged with a wry half-smile.

“I’ll tell you some other time when I’m sufficiently drunk.”

“Do I get to buy one and get one free too?” Jisung cocked his head toward his own box of ginseng that he’d left on the counter.

“That one’s free. You get the Special Friends Discount of 100%.”

Seeing that a small queue of customers had formed at check-out, Minho threw another apologetic look at Jisung. Before he could round the counter and slip away, Jisung gently pulled him back by the hand and leaned in close to his ear.

“When do you get off work?” he whispered low, his breath grazing the shell of Minho’s ear.

“I close the store at seven,” Minho said, a slight waver in his voice.

“Alright, I’ll be back by then.”

He pulled out a piece of folded candy wrapper and slipped it into the breast pocket of Minho’s shirt, gently patting it before stepping away and exiting the store. He left behind Minho with a bewildered assumption that Jisung had just deposited trash on him.

After ringing up the remainder of customers, Minho reached into his pocket and unfolded the wrapper. A cell number was scribbled onto it with little hearts drawn in the place of zeroes.

* * *

True to his word, Jisung returned just as Minho was closing up the store that evening. Minho almost hadn’t recognized him when he stepped out of the car in a dark blazer and meticulously styled hair, parted neatly to accentuate his striking eyebrows and jawline.

Minho handed him a shopping bag containing a box of ginseng extract. “You forgot this.”

Jisung rubbed the back of his neck, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve seen the price tag on this, I can’t just take it.”

“Good thing you’re paying for dinner then,” Minho said with a wink. A pause, then he clarified, “That was a joke, by the way. I’d be a shitty hyung to make you do that.”

“Too late, I was gonna treat you anyway,” Jisung said with a reciprocal wink. “I reserved us a table at La Fontaine Bleue.” He walked ahead of Minho and opened the passenger door of his sleek sedan.

Whistling, Minho stepped back to examine the car. “What’s all this? Have you gone _nouveau riche_ on me?”

“Calm down,” Jisung said with a playful eye roll, “it’s just a rental. Besides, I’ve had to endure the nightmare that is the New York subway system for years. I think I’ve earned a few weeks with a fancy ride.”

Minho snorted and climbed into the car, feeling instantly out of place in the plush leather seat and upscale cabin. Jisung slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear view mirror, the metal bracelets on his wrist jangling with the motion. He fit in perfectly with the decor.

“This isn’t fair,” Minho said, clicking his seatbelt in.

“What?”

“You got to change into something nice while I look... like _this_.” Minho glanced down at his light jacket over a plain button-up and dull pair of jeans.

Jisung let out a dramatic sigh as he pulled away from the curb. “Don’t fish for compliments, ’cause I won’t bite.”

“What? I’m not!”

“Pleeeease. You’ve seen yourself in a mirror, right?”

“Whatever,” Minho said, feeling himself flush against his will. He stared out the window in hopes that his face would cool off by the time they arrived at their destination. “If I had 10 won for every time you called me ugly, I’d have my _own_ luxury car by now.”

“That was when you were an ugly duckling! I admit that you’ve grown into your looks,” Jisung teased. “I, on the other hand, was always dashingly handsome.”

Minho responded with a long-suffering sigh. “Thank god you’re still short. I don’t think the universe could handle your ego at 180 centimeters.”

Jisung whipped his head to him as he stopped at a red light, crinkling his nose. “Hey! I embrace the genes I was blessed with. Besides, good things come in small packages.”

“You have a small package?”

Sputtering a laugh, Jisung shoved Minho’s arm half-heartedly. “You’re terrible.”

“No, I’m a saint to put up with you. And where are we going, anyway? La Fontaine Bleue is in the other direction.”

Jisung hummed as he signaled a left turn. “I changed my mind. I’m in the mood for something else, if that’s alright.”

A handful of intersections later, he parked along a quiet neighborhood street, far away from the fancy shops and restaurants of downtown.

Stepping out of the car, Jisung pointed toward a restaurant that was more a hole in the wall under dimly-lit signage and a blinking pig mascot. Minho recalled that they’d visited here a few times after their Sunday get-togethers at the arcade. It was the kind of place where lonely souls gathered to get drunk off cheap alcohol and _samgyeopsal_. But tonight was Jisung’s night, so Minho wordlessly followed him inside.

They settled themselves at a table in the corner. As expected, the patrons were mostly men who sat at tables littered with soju bottles and plates smeared with pork grease. A baseball game played on a TV mounted in the corner of the ceiling, its volume inaudible over the loud sizzling of grilling meat.

Jisung was overdressed and overstyled for such an atmosphere, but Minho found the contrast endearing. His core sparked with warmth at the old feeling.

They started off by ordering a plate of _tteokbokki_ to share. At first Minho asked that it be prepared mild because Jisung had never handled spicy foods well, but Jisung protested, saying he wanted the “authentic experience”.

“I hope you don’t mind that we came here,” Jisung said, transferring pieces of rice cake onto his smaller plate. “There are some foods that just don’t taste the same anywhere else, you know? I must’ve tried every _tteokbokki_ dish in all of New York, but they never hit the spot.”

“So you flew 10,000 kilometers to eat cheap local _tteokbokki_?”

“Don’t judge till you’ve known the despair.”

Minho snorted, placing several spicy fish cakes onto Jisung’s plate. “How long will you be in Korea?”

“Just under two weeks—agh!” The rice cake that Jisung had bitten into burned his tongue, which he remedied by fanning his open mouth and sipping on his tea.

“For work?”

“Sort of, yeah. I write songs now, and some record company reps reached out asking if I could work with their artists. No one big or famous, but the music scene here’s grown a lot the past few years beyond just the idol genre, so it could be a cool opportunity.” Jisung poked at a fish cake with his chopsticks, then looked up to lock eyes with Minho. “Mostly though, I just missed it here.”

“So you’re a proper songwriter, huh? Cheers to that.” Minho raised his glass of barley tea to Jisung. After ducking his head in embarrassment, Jisung clinked his tea glass to Minho’s.

“Seven whole years you were gone,” Minho continued with a fond shake of the head.

“I know. Crazy, huh?”

“Has it really been that long? Seems like only yesterday we were at the swimming pool and...”

Minho trailed off before the conversation could take a turn toward something he wasn’t ready for, and from the way Jisung’s face briefly tensed, it seemed the other wasn’t ready for it either.

The server brought a platter of raw pork belly slices, and the two men quietly cooked the meat and vegetables on the table’s recessed grill, forgoing further small talk for the time being. Minho wished he could rewind to 10 minutes ago and shut his past self’s damn mouth. He waved down the server again and ordered a bottle of soju.

“Make it two, please,” he amended.

“None for me,” Jisung piped up. “I’m driving, remember?”

Minho waved him off. “It isn’t for you.”

  
  
  


Minho set his chopsticks down on the plate with a firm _clank_. “No fucking way.”

Jisung laughed, stuffing his face with a grilled mushroom. “Yes fucking way.”

“You wrote ’Close’? AKA the song that plagued the radio all last summer?” 

The song had been a debut single from a young Australian musician, Christopher Chan, whose popularity had exploded overnight. It had topped the charts for weeks and was virtually inescapable during that time.

“Thanks for implying that my song is a pestilence,” Jisung said, feigning offense.

“Hey, you know what I mean! It’s a great song, but my ears needed a break after hearing it for the millionth time at the supermarket.”

“Touché,” Jisung chuckled. “Not gonna lie, even I got sick of it. Funny thing is, most people don’t know I wrote it since my pseudonym is credited.”

“Wait—you’re _the_ J.One???”

Jisung answered with a cheesy wink and V-sign.

Minho had to admit it was a clever spin on his name. So clever that it was kind of blowing his mind. He downed another shot of soju, setting the glass down on the table with a satisfied clang, and stared at Jisung with a dumb and endeared smile on his face. For the first time in a while, his heart felt full in his chest with contentment. So full that surely it would burst at the seams.

“What?” Jisung huffed a shy laugh under the other’s gaze.

“Nothing. Just... I’m proud of you, Jisung-ah.”

“Ugh, don’t be greasy,” Jisung said, unable to hide a faint blush behind a flourish of his chopsticks.

“I’m glad that... that you got to pursue what you wanted in the end.” The alcohol began to weigh down his tongue, so Minho did the only logical thing by pouring himself another shot.

Jisung’s smile was tentative as he spoke. “Sure, it only cost me my relationship with my parents.” He sighed, stretching his arms over his head. “But that’s a conversation for another day, preferably when I’m piss drunk.”

  
  
  


Minho thought he was only mildly drunk when Jisung dropped him off at his apartment building, but he stumbled onto the pavement with the first foot out of the vehicle. Perhaps he’d underestimated his inebriation.

Springing from the driver’s side, Jisung rounded the car and crouched down next to him. A warm and steadying hand gripped Minho’s waist as he regained his footing on the ground.

“Should I walk you to your apartment?”

“No,” Minho said, his face burning from a mixture of alcohol and embarrassment. “I’m not a lightweight,” he added defensively.

“Of course not,” Jisung said with a soft chuckle. Nonetheless he kept his arm secure around Minho’s waist until they reached the main entrance.

After fumbling through his pockets, Minho pulled out his keycard but stopped short of swiping it on the entrance panel.

He turned around to face a very sober Jisung who also happened to look stupidly attractive with his stupid hair and stupid blazer that that fit his frame perfectly. Minho squinted at him for a moment, then squeezed Jisung’s cheeks with both hands, his gaze darting across his face and matching the features to the remnants of years-old memory.

“Jisung-ah... is it really you... are you really here?”

Jisung’s hands came up to gently grasp Minho’s wrists. “It’s really me,” he mumbled as his cheeks were being poked and prodded. “And yes, I can confirm my corporeal existence this very moment.”

Minho exhaled a disbelieving laugh and cupped Jisung’s face in his hands like he was something precious.

“What happened in your life that brought you back to me?” he said, thumbing the younger’s cheek and swaying slightly on his feet. “What changed?”

The grasp on Minho’s wrists tightened just a bit. Jisung’s eyes were earnest and clear, unlike the brooding night sky under which they stood.

“I slowed down and followed the thread,” he answered.

Minho narrowed his eyes and pressed a finger to his own temple in a thinking pose. “Huh, that sounds familiar.”

“It’s getting late, hyung. Time to head inside.”

Placing a hand over Minho’s own hand, he guided Minho in swiping the keycard, and he murmured good night into his ear before nudging him inside the building.

* * *

_From: Jisung_

_Good morning how bad is ur hangover_

_Sent:_

_Feels like I got punched repeatedly in the nuts but the pain is in my head_

_From: Jisung_

_So. U have a headache_

_Sent:_

_Thx 4 the diagnosis. U free 2nite? Let’s do dinner without booze this time_

_From: Jisung_

_Sounds good Will call U l8r_

* * *

“What happened? Where is...?”

Jisung’s words were weighed down by a perplexed sadness as he stood in front of the building that had once housed King’s Arcade. It was now occupied by a generic looking bank. A sterile sign with the bank’s name hung over the entrance instead of the stuttering neon lights that had been seared into the two men’s permanent memories.

Minho nudged him with a sympathetic elbow. “It closed down a couple of years ago. A lot of other shops in the neighborhood shut down too, or relocated.”

For better or for worse, the neighborhood had become “upgraded” in the past few years, with trendy coffee shops and upscale boutiques gradually replacing the modest local businesses that couldn’t keep up with the rising rent.

“That’s a shame.” Jisung slipped his hands in his pockets and stared at the building in another minute of silence.

The streets were mostly empty with the shops having shuttered for the evening, save for the couples enjoying a stroll in the cool early spring night. The scent of freshly-made _bungeo-ppang_ wafted in from the corner street stall, sold by the same elderly gentleman from as far back as they could remember, and the two men bought the pastries with the same youthful eagerness from years ago.

“At least _this_ hasn’t changed,” Jisung said, biting into the piping hot bread and mildly panicking when the bean paste burned his mouth. He spotted the familiar sidewalk railing a bit farther down the road and hopped onto it, dangling his feet like he was a teenager again. “Do you know what makes me happiest, hyung? Good old-fashioned street food.”

Minho hopped on beside Jisung and broke his fish-shaped pastry in half, handing Jisung the yummier tail end.

Jisung asked how Changbin and Seungmin had been doing, and Minho proudly spoke of Changbin’s foray as an underground hip-hop producer. Seungmin had landed a highly coveted position in a mobile technology firm, working in overseas operations, which meant that Minho rarely got to see him these days, sometimes traveling for months at a time.

Minho gave Jisung Changbin’s number and encouraged him to meet with the latter now that they were in the same industry.

“Hell yeah, I’d love to catch up with him.”

”He’ll shit his pants when he finds out you’re J.One,” Minho said amusedly.

After finishing his half of the _bungeo-ppang_ , Minho brought out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and dislodged a stick with a tap.

“You still smoke?” Jisung said.

Minho froze momentarily and side-eyed him. “Don’t judge, alright? I quit for five whole years until recently.”

Jisung chuckled, eyes cast to the ground. “Don’t worry, I won’t go snatching your cigarettes again. I’m no longer the idealistic youth I once was.”

Minho nearly dropped the cigarette from his mouth expelling a guffaw. “You’re twenty-six, Jisung-ah. You’re still a baby.” He reached out and pinched Jisung’s cheek.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Jisung said, leaning his hands against the railing like he used to do. “I feel old as hell, hyung.”

Minho removed the stick from his mouth and twirled it absently with his fingers. He’d never smoked once in front of Jisung back then, and he wasn’t sure he could do it now, even with the younger’s tacit permission.

“If you think _you’re_ old, what does that make me?”

“It’s not that. What I mean is...” Jisung trailed off and looked up at the moon as if to seek its guidance. “When my parents sent me to New York, I won’t lie, it was hell just trying to survive day to day.”

“I thought you lived with your relatives over there?”

“I did, at first. Then I dropped out of college after the first semester—shocking, I know—and started bussing tables at any place that would hire me. My aunt and uncle in New York who I lived with, I put them in a tough spot because as much as they wanted to support me, they couldn’t go against my parents’ wishes.”

Minho’s heart sank to think of Jisung, who was still young and maturing back then, having no one to look out for him while navigating a completely foreign land.

“So you moved out?”

“Yeah. Thankfully, my older cousin let me stay at her place for about a year. She’s kind of like the black sheep of the family, so she knew what I was going through.” Jisung paused, a weak and distant smile on his face. “But those times were a blessing in disguise—because one day, I realized I had nothing to lose. So I kept working my ass off picking up whatever jobs I could, until I saved enough money to buy a shitty used guitar from my cousin’s friend. The night I brought it home is when I wrote the melody for ’Close’.”

The unlit cigarette lay bent and twisted between Minho’s fingers. His chest felt hollowed out after hearing Jisung’s story, and a sense of shame began to fill the void. When Jisung had disappeared so suddenly all those years ago, Minho felt lost, abandoned by him, and on some days those feelings had even hardened into resentment. He’d imagined that Jisung was living a fanciful life in America, reaping the benefits of a new education and opportunities afforded to him on a silver platter. In reality, nothing could have been further from the truth.

He should have given Jisung all of his _bungeo-ppang_ , he thought ruefully as he stared down at his empty hand.

“I’m glad it worked out for you,” Minho said, briefly squeezing the other’s knee and drawing strength once more from his endless affection for the younger. “Once you become a world famous composer and producer, you can pay me back for all those lunches I bought you.”

Jisung ducked his head and smiled at his dangling feet. “You’re being greasy again, hyung.”

“Yah, be grateful that you have a hyung like me who puts up with you,” Minho said, bumping his shoulder to Jisung’s. “So what else is in your plans while you’re here?”

“I’m headed to Seoul tomorrow for a week, to meet with those music folks I told you about. And to see my brother and his wife and kid.”

Hearing Jisung’s answer, a minor heartache began to sink in to know that with less than two weeks remaining before Jisung’s departure, Minho’s chance to see him had dwindled to a handful of days. But he would have to be beyond foolish to assume he’d have Jisung all to himself while he was here.

Jisung had a bright future ahead of him and a whole world to explore and share his talents with. Who was Minho to ask him to drop everything for the sake of reliving nostalgia, even temporarily?

A lot had changed in their years apart, and though Minho was grateful that their paths had crossed again, these moments together would be a blip in their long and separate journeys ahead.

* * *

_Sent:_

_Not a dealbreaker_

_From: Changbin_

_Wow took U long enough to reply. Still interested to meet him?_

_Sent:_

_Sure Y not. Text me his phone nbr whenever_

* * *

To minimize the inherent awkwardness of a blind date, Changbin invited Minho and Hyunjin to meet at a downtown café where a dongsaeng friend of his was scheduled to play a set that weekend.

The place was already packed by the time Minho arrived, and he scanned the crowd for a familiar face until he spotted Changbin waving him down from a side table. Across him sat a young man with long black hair tied in a loose half ponytail.

“Hyung! You made it!” Changbin said with a friendly slap to Minho’s back. The other man immediately stood up, and he and Minho exchanged polite bows.

“I’m Hyunjin,” the newcomer said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He objectively struck Minho as strikingly attractive, with a chiseled jawline and full lips and model-like proportions. He donned a loose t-shirt decorated with stenciled lettering and skinny ripped jeans, giving off the air of a struggling art student, though Minho reminded himself to reserve all judgment till he got to know the guy first.

“I’m Minho, and likewise.” Minho took a seat next to Changbin who was dressed as casually as Hyunjin was. He couldn’t help but feel out of place in his crisp button-up shirt and dress pants.

While someone was setting up the sound system on the small stage in front, Changbin excused himself to the ordering counter. Minho took this opportunity to ask Hyunjin the basic questions: his age (twenty-six), his job (part-time barista, part-time photographer), and if he was really allergic to cats (unfortunately so).

As Minho talked of the family business he ran, Changbin returned with three hot coffees, a welcome distraction from the lull of dwindling small talk.

“So everything’s good?” Changbin said to Minho with a raised brow, code for _should I leave you two lovebirds alone now?_

Minho’s smile was pleading as he spoke. “You should stay and enjoy the live music with us,” then he turned to Hyunjin, hoping he wouldn’t object.

“Absolutely,” Hyunjin said. He briefly placed his hand over Changbin’s own on the table in assurance.

Changbin shrugged, “If you guys insist.”

All heads turned toward the stage at the tentative tapping of the mic. Changbin’s musician friend—Beomgyu—swung his guitar strap over his head and shyly introduced himself. He started off by strumming the intro chords to Damien Rice’s “Cannonball”.

Minho eyed Changbin who was watching his friend on stage with a proud beam, then observed Hyunjin who occasionally glimpsed at Changbin. The blush on the younger male’s cheeks intensified with each surreptitious glance.

Changbin quietly took his leave after the fourth song. “You two have fun.”

And so went Minho’s safety net for the evening.

From the corner of his eye, Minho caught Hyunjin throwing a restless glance at his watch as Beomgyu wrapped up his acoustic version of Park Jinyoung’s “Honey”. Hyunjin was a nice enough guy, and more than easy on the eyes, but Minho had survived enough first dates to know if he’d struck out at the plate or if the encounter would stretch into extra innings. Ultimately, he hadn’t felt the definitive spark that made him hungry to know more about the other man.

He wondered if he excusing himself to the bathroom and not coming back might be too rude for a first date.

In a stroke of luck, his escape plan came in the form of an incoming text, and his savior was Jeongin who’d been working his shift at the store.

_From Jeongin:_

_Some weird lady just stopped by asking for you...???_

Closing shut his phone, Minho leaned over the table to whisper that something had come up at work that required his attention. He knew he probably looked like he was weaseling out of the date—and he would concede that perhaps that was true—but Hyunjin merely smiled, seemingly unoffended.

“No problem. See you some other time?”

Minho appreciated that he hadn’t cornered him into a second date, which only compounded his guilt of slipping away early.

He placed a hand on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he stood up. “Sure, call me anytime.”

  
  
  


The place smelled more like a barbeque joint than the usual scent of mint and dried leaves when Minho stepped inside the shop. Jeongin immediately pointed to two large takeout bags on the counter.

“The lady said to tell you these are from ’Yeona’s mom’.”

Minho peered into the bags containing a smorgasbord of prepared restaurant food and side dishes.

“Who’s Yeona?” Jeongin asked. “She your girlfriend or something?”

Minho pushed the food toward Jeongin with a sigh. “You can go home early. And feel free to take all this with you.”

Jeongin eagerly thanked him, saying it would feed him and his roommates for days.

* * *

Later that week, Minho met Changbin in the same café of his failed blind date with Hyunjin.

“Man, that’s too bad,” Changbin said when Minho confessed that it hadn’t worked out. “I thought for sure you two would hit it off.”

“Even if I did want to pursue it further, I’m pretty sure Hyunjin has his heart set on someone else.”

Changbin raised a brow. “Really? Who?”

Minho had always thought Changbin to be whip-smart, but he was apparently a bit clueless when it came to the trappings of romance.

In less kind terms: Changbin was an idiot to not see Hyunjin’s extremely obvious pining.

His thoughts were cut short by Changbin calling someone over. Minho turned around to see Jisung walking into the shop, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. A heart-shaped smile appeared under the brim as he approached the two men.

“Hey,” he nodded to Changbin, then to Minho, his smile turning shyer at the latter.

“You’re back,” Minho said, his mouth suddenly dry. “How was Seoul?”

Jisung hooked the chair across from Minho with his foot and sat down. “Nothing really came of the meetings with those reps, though I kind of expected that. I did get a contract offer from a local music publisher, but nothing’s been decided. I spent the rest of my week getting run ragged by my adorable but freakishly energetic niece.”

“Think long and hard before you agree to any contract,” Changbin said, rapping his knuckle on the table top for emphasis. “Anytime you sign on the dotted line, know that you’re trading in your freedom for a corporate quota.”

“True enough,” Jisung agreed.

As Jisung and Changbin continued to discuss their musical endeavors, Minho decided to make himself useful and ordered three iced Americanos at the counter. He didn’t mind third-wheeling in this instance; it was nice to see his friends reconnect, and to hear such enthusiasm color Jisung’s voice in particular.

“...postponed your departure?” Changbin was saying when Minho returned with the drinks.

Jisung muttered a smiling thanks to Minho as he took his drink, and turned to answer Changbin. “Yeah, I’m extending my stay for ten more days.”

“Nice!” Changbin gave a fist bump to the younger. “That’ll give us enough time to knock out some demos. My friend can hook us up with free studio time too.”

“Sounds good—I have some hooks written that I think could fit a hip-hop arrangement.”

“You’ll be here longer?” Minho asked, nudging himself into the conversation.

Jisung ducked his head and fidgeted with the straw wrapper, his face hidden beneath his cap as he spoke. “Yeah... I realized I had more reasons to stay than I thought.”

Something that felt dangerously like hope flared up in Minho’s chest at those words, pushing his heart to beat faster, but he was quick to extinguish the notion before it could taint the reasonable voice in him. And that voice was telling him that he should be a good hyung to his dongsaeng friend.

“You can stay at my place,” Minho coolly offered. “No need to waste more money on a hotel. If you’re okay to sleep on the couch, that is.”

Jisung raised his head, his eyes lighting up under the shadow of the brim. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

Minho reached across the table to tap the back of Jisung’s hand. “Of course not.”

Before he could pull away, Jisung caught him gently around the wrist. Changbin interjected with another idea for their collaboration to which Jisung responded with equal eagerness, and he carried on talking while absently stroking Minho’s inner wrist with his thumb.

Minho could sense his ears burning from the casual touch; he pressed the iced drink to his ear with his free hand, hoping that would vanish the evidence of his flustered state. Jisung didn’t help matters when he looped a straw wrapper around Minho’s wrist like a bracelet, neatly tying it at the ends.

“Aww,” Changbin cooed teasingly as he eyed the paper bracelet. “Best friends forever.”

* * *

“Jesus, what do you have in this thing?” Minho complained. With some effort, he hauled one of Jisung’s suitcases into the apartment and closed the door shut with his foot.

Jisung rolled his other suitcase next to the sofa, his assigned bed for the next ten days. “Clothes, toiletries, extra pairs of shoes, a dead body. You know, the usual.”

“Well noted.”

After Jisung had settled on the couch, Minho brought out a container of sliced Asian pears from the fridge and placed it on the coffee table before them.

Jisung smiled to himself as he jabbed his fork into a slice. “This reminds me of when I used to study at your house,” he said, emphasizing the word study with finger quotes.

“Yeah,” Minho snorted in agreement, “my mom used to feed us this all the time.” He picked up a slice as well, enjoying the sweet juice bursting in his mouth with each crisp bite.

Jisung guffawed as he mumbled with a full mouth. “Remember when she asked us to have a conversation in English to see how much we’d improved? And we basically recited the lyrics of ’Baby One More Time’?”

A buoyant giggle sent Minho leaning forward and slapping Jisung’s knee. “Holy shit, I’d forgotten about that. My mom was so impressed too.”

A tiny meow interrupted their nostalgic musing. Both heads turned to Doongie who made a guest appearance in the living room.

“Soonie??” Jisung said, setting down his fork.

Minho leaned into Jisung’s ear, unable to resist a chuckle. “That’s Doongie. Soonie’s living out his retirement with my parents.”

“Ohh, I see! Nice to meet you, Doongie-nim.” Jisung stood up and bowed respectfully at the cat, a sight that Minho found absurd—and absurdly endearing. Jisung stepped forward to approach him, but Doongie hightailed it (literally) and slipped into the safety of the bedroom.

“Don’t take it personally,” Minho said when Jisung pouted in disappointment. “He’s shy around strangers.”

Jisung pressed his lips in a determined line. “My new personal mission: make Lee Doongie fall in love with me.”

* * *

_🎵 The very thought of you and I forget to do_ _  
__The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do_

Ella Fitzgerald’s voice blasted in full volume through the empty apartment. Minho sang along, off-key and carefree, butchering the lyrics and not giving a damn because he’d just finished cleaning the entire apartment _and_ he’d done the laundry like a responsible adult. He scooped up Doongie in his arms, who’d been lazing on the bed until that moment, and danced around waving his cat’s paws to the swinging rhythm.

“Hey, hyung.”

Doongie leapt from his arms with a yowl. Minho snapped his startled gaze to Jisung who had appeared at the doorway seemingly out of nowhere.

“Oh, I d-didn’t hear you come in,” Minho stammered, stumbling to his desk to shut off the iPod connected to his speakers.

“Sorry,” Jisung said sheepishly, “I just got back a moment ago. I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Nothing to see,” Minho laughed awkwardly and snatched a towel from the basket by his feet. “Just... folding my boring old laundry.”

He then glanced nervously at the seashell on the bedside table, fearing Jisung might see. Fortunately, Doongie zooming out of the room distracted Jisung long enough to let Minho clumsily deposit the seashell in the bedside drawer.

“Mind if I come in?” Jisung asked, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh—sure.”

Jisung stepped in and looked around the room, pausing over the portraits of Soonie and Doongie hanging on the wall. Framed family photos sat on the desk that was mostly littered with invoices and other business-related documents. Jisung paused again in front of the bookshelf.

“You kept these?” he said as he ran a hand across the spines of the _Slam Dunk_ volumes. They were the only comics that Minho had kept when he’d moved out of his parents’ place.

“Too much sentimental value to throw away,” Minho said.

Jisung walked over to the bed and grazed his fingers over the quilted down comforter, the action oddly intimate. “Is this goose down?” he asked.

“See for yourself.”

With a mischievous glint, Jisung plopped down onto his back on the plush covers and moved his arms and legs like he was making a snow angel, his hair fanned out on the pillow like a dark halo.

“So this is what sleeping on a fluffy cloud feels like,” Jisung sighed. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arms over his head and causing his shirt to ride up on his stomach.

“Han Jisung tummy~” Minho teased as he poked the exposed belly button.

“Agh! No touchy,” Jisung laughed, swatting his hand away, then he pointed at the ceiling with attention diverted. “Oh, look—a moth!”

“Jisungie look at me~ Only look at me~”

Jisung side-eyed him for the terrible pun; Minho stared back with zero shame.

“Can you put the music back on?” Jisung smiled with a slow, easy blink and slipped his arms under the pillow, making no effort to cover up his exposed stomach. Minho’s eyes traced the hint of defined abs, and he chastised himself when he felt heat kiss the tip of his ears.

He pressed play again to summon the jazzy arrangement of horns from the speakers, the rich sounds filling the room with warmth. Jisung hummed along to Ella Fitzgerald’s blithesome vocals.

 _🎵 I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above_ _  
__It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love_

* * *

Minho collapsed onto the couch with an annoyed grunt.

He’d closed up the shop an hour early to surprise Jisung with _jjamjjamyeon_ paired with sweet and sour pork, one of the younger’s favorite dish combinations. Except Minho had just received a text from Jisung saying he’d be running late tonight and to have dinner without him.

What truly annoyed him, however, was how easily he felt bruised over something as trivial as a missed dinner. It had been a mere three days since Jisung arrived at the apartment, yet Minho was already acting like some fussy househusband waiting for his spouse to come home from a hard day’s work for god’s sake.

His first instinct was to call up Changbin, but he was probably with Jisung right now doing whatever musical bros did together. He couldn’t bother Jeongin either, as the younger had recently started dating a “cute girl who’s way out of [his] league”, and so Minho left him to focus on his burgeoning love life.

In a last ditch effort, he opened up his phone and scrolled through his list of contacts, stopping at _Hwang Hyunjin_. Their first date wasn’t exactly a success, but surely there would be no harm in meeting up as semi-acquaintances? His thumb hovered over the dial button for what felt like a small eternity.

He looked down at Doongie who was currently pawing at his sock-clad foot.

Minho squinted thoughtfully at his cat. “What do you think? Should I call him? Swing your tail to the left for yes, right for no.”

  
  
  


The jeans Minho had haphazardly put on were entirely too tight. Fortunately, his baggy striped shirt covered most of the vulnerable areas. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to flaunt his assets, but he didn’t want to give Hyunjin the wrong impression, either. He discreetly pulled the front of his shirt lower over his crotch and pushed into the restaurant.

“Hyung!” Hyunjin raised his beer bottle from the back table.

Minho squeezed through the crowded bar section, and when he reached Hyunjin’s table, their hands clasped awkwardly in a misfired high-five, earning a giggle from the younger.

“This place is packed tonight,” Minho observed as he glanced around. It was a trendy spot with a sleek modern interior and chrome finish complementing the dark color scheme.

But the true visual to behold was Hyunjin in his black leather jacket and vintage tee underneath. His long hair was kept loose, framing the enviable V-line of his face. In short, he was the amalgam of a flower boy and a greaser—a combination that turned more than a few heads in the restaurant.

Minho had barely opened up his menu when Hyunjin threw him a curve ball.

“Just so we’re on the same page—is this a date?”

Minho blinked, a tad flustered by the directness. “I don’t know. Do you _want_ it to be a date?”

Hyunjin hid a coy smile behind a sip of his beer. Minho returned the look as he continued to scour the menu.

The air became more relaxed after they ordered their meals and drinks. Hyunjin was definitely more at ease than when they’d met at the café; he laughed easily at Minho’s corny-yet-deadpan humor, and gestured excitedly as he recounted last weekend’s shenanigans in which Changbin badly lost a game of strip poker.

It was at that moment that Minho threw a curve ball of his own.

“So when are you gonna ask Changbin out?”

The steak piece that was being raised stopped just short of Hyunjin’s mouth, and he placed his fork down on the plate. He snorted wryly as he reached for his glass of wine.

“Am I that obvious?” he said with a defeated half-smile. “Please don’t say anything to him.”

“I won’t. I have to ask, though... if that was the case, why did you agree to a blind date with me?”

Hyunjin swished the wine around the glass and shrugged. “He never seemed to return my interest, so a part of me wanted to get over him, I guess. But I knew it wouldn’t work out from the moment I saw you. No offense, but I’m not into pretty boys.”

Minho smirked at the irony, but he conceded in good spirits. “None taken.”

A buzzing in his pocket cut into their amicable talk; his phone display showed an incoming call from Jisung. Minho took a gulp of his own wine and silenced the phone.

 _You dumb fucking hypocrite_ , chided one part of his brain.

 _This is your night out_ , another part countered. _Jisung is a grown man who can take care of himself._

“Go ahead and take the call if you need,” Hyunjin said.

“Nah,” Minho said, scraping his fork across the plate, “it’s not important.”

He pushed aside any lingering guilt and resumed his meal and conversation. By the time their desserts had arrived and Hyunjin proceeded to steal more than half of his cake, Minho thought he might have made a new friend.

They split the check without fuss and walked out into the night that smelled of cigarette smoke and oncoming rain.

“Hey,” Minho said as they were ready to part, “if you ever confess to Changbin, tell him you think he has killer pecs.”

Hyunjin stood on the sidewalk and blinked at him in confusion.

“Trust me on this,” Minho said, hailing a taxi to the curb.

  
  
  


“Minho hyung!”

Jisung’s voice rang in the air as soon as Minho stepped out of the taxicab.

Sprinting with the gracefulness of a lead-footed hippo, Jisung tripped over his own feet and broke his fall with an extended hand, only to stumble forward again. Minho caught him in his arms just before he could eat pavement. The cause of his piss poor balance was evident in the smell of booze that wafted off him.

Jisung looked up at Minho with a loopy smile. “Hyung, hyung, hyung.”

“What, what, what.”

The younger looked down at Minho’s outfit, his hands clutching onto Minho’s steadying arms. “Whoa, you look good. Where’d you come from?”

“Dinner with a friend,” Minho said, determined to keep his voice even, though his palpitating heart had missed the memo.

To that, Jisung narrowed his eyes warily. “I called you like a bajillion times, but you didn’t answer.”

“I gave you a spare key, Jisung-ah. Why are you out here?”

“I... wanted to wait. For you.”

Minho struggled for an answer, so he motioned to usher Jisung inside, but the younger’s grip on his biceps only tightened, keeping him in place.

Jisung stuck out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. “S’not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“Just... the way you are, hyung.”

Feeling his arms start to weaken, Minho guided Jisung to lean against the brick wall of the apartment and kept his hands on Jisung’s shoulders to steady his precarious balance.

“How long were you out tonight? You didn’t drive, did you?” Minho said, his brow becoming taut with worry.

Jisung scowled defensively. “No! I took a taxi, I’m not stupid... Well, I _am_ stupid, but not in that way.”

Minho quietly exhaled in relief and patted Jisung’s arm. “I’ll go buy some raisin tea for that hangover. Why don’t you go inside first.”

“Don’t—” Jisung blurted out in protest, then lowered his voice. “Don’t go. I wanna... I wanna talk, hyung. We need to talk. You and me.” He relaxed his scowl, and his eyes swam in a familiar sincerity as he searched for something in Minho’s own gaze. Minho looked away.

“Fine,” he sighed. “But not out here, okay?”

“Lead the way, sir.”

  
  
  


A meow greeted them in the dark when they reached the apartment. Jisung shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness of lights being flicked on.

Doongie emerged from the bedroom and approached with cautious steps, his ears twitching lightly, still wary of Jisung’s presence.

“Hey kitty!” Jisung perked up and stumbled out of his shoes, the sudden movement causing Doongie to skitter backwards.

Minho helped Jisung into a pair of fuzzy slippers and motioned him to sit on the sofa before he could suffer a concussion. After a moment of rooting through the kitchen, Minho returned with a pouch of red ginseng extract.

“Here, drink this and you’ll feel slightly less like death in the morning.”

Jisung’s pout was back in full force. He shook his head. “That stuff’s yucky and bitter.”

“But... you wanted to buy a whole boxful at the store...?”

A drunken giggle rang out. “Only as an excuse to talk to you.”

Silently cursing the fluttering in his stomach, Minho grabbed another drink from the kitchen and handed Jisung a pouch of pear extract mixed with ginseng.

“This one tastes sweet, I promise.” He settled himself on the other end of the sofa and watched Jisung down the drink in one gulp. Minho chortled when Jisung belched cutely in approval.

Turning to face Jisung and bringing his knees to his chest, he propped his head on an elbow against the sofa. “So what is it that you wanted to discuss? Are you sure you shouldn’t sober up first?”

“I’m sober enough.” Jisung hardened his face in a stern expression, which melted just as quickly when Doongie walked out into the living room. He slid off the sofa to crouch down on the floor and made _pss-pss_ noises at the cat, though Doongie continued to sit at a distance with his tail curled around his feet.

“He hates me,” Jisung said dejectedly.

“It takes him a while to warm up to people. Let him come to you and sniff you, but don’t try to pet him yet.”

“Fine.”

Jisung sat back cross-legged on the floor and remained still. After several moments of quiet, Doongie finally perked his ears and ambled toward Jisung to give a cautious sniff of his hand. With eyes widening in excitement, Jisung extended his hand over the cat’s head for a pet.

“Nice kitty— _ow!!_ ”

Jisung retracted his hand as an agitated Doongie scurried off into the bedroom. Faint red marks arose on the back of his hand.

Minho sighed, “I told you not to touch him.”

“He hates me,” Jisung repeated, his voice fighting off tears.

Minho hurried to the bathroom cabinet and returned with a tube of antibiotic ointment and a band-aid box.

“He doesn’t hate you. He just got spooked,” Minho assured softly, taking Jisung’s hand in his own and gently rubbing a dollop of ointment onto the scratched skin. The scratch wasn’t too bad, showing up as lines of red but not deep enough to have drawn blood.

Minho applied the band-aid over the wound and pressed a kiss to it before he realized what he’d done.

When he looked up, Jisung was staring at him with tear-filled eyes.

“It hurts, hyung.”

“Oh—sorry,” Minho said, releasing Jisung’s hand. “I won’t do it again.”

“No, I mean...” Jisung stared down at his bandaged hand then brought it to his own chest, laying his palm over his sternum. “It hurts here.”

Minho let out a soft huff of laughter to think that Jisung was such a sensitive drunk. “I promise you, Doongie will warm up to you eventually.”

A brief scowl seized Jisung’s face. “No, it’s not that—you don’t get it, hyung.”

The brusqueness of the words washed away any levity in the air. Minho’s mind ran into a dead end as to what could make Jisung act like this beyond the maudlin babblings of too much booze.

He moved closer to Jisung on the couch but was at a loss for words or action. Should he give him a hug? Pat him on the back and say _there, there, everything will be alright_?

Before he could ponder further, Jisung reached out and brought Minho’s hand to rest flat against his chest, directly over the swift and emphatic pounding of the younger’s heart. The warmth under Minho’s touch was overwhelming.

Minho’s voice was a rasp as he pulled away. “Jisung-ah, you’re drunk. You need to sleep it off.”

“You were my first, hyung,” Jisung said, ignoring his words. The alcohol made his blinks slow and heavy. “My first love.”

Minho was once more at a loss for words, trying to catch up with the sudden turn in conversation. He drew a slow breath and waited for Jisung to continue.

“It’s stupid, but... I kind of resent you for it.”

“Why?”

“Because you made me set the bar too high for other people.”

There was no malice in the chuckle that Minho let out in response. “You should be thanking me, then. I probably saved you a ton of trouble and heartache.”

“No, not really.” Jisung’s eyes were swimming with tears again as he picked the band-aid on his hand. “I feel like... like I’m still stuck in that moment in the swimming pool seven years ago. And I hate that I can’t move on.”

A panicked heat flared up in Minho’s gut; he quickly stamped it out, telling himself that this was the alcohol talking and that as the sober one, he really should send Jisung off to bed before the younger could say something he might regret in the morning.

“Jisung-ah, it’s late, and you’re drunk. We can talk more tomorrow, okay?”

Jisung stared at him again, his face shifting into vague resignation. He blinked back his tears and nodded.

Minho lay the spare pillow and blankets on the sofa as Jisung brushed his teeth (as best as he could with his currently less-than-stellar motor coordination) and changed into his sleep clothes in the bathroom.

The _Akira_ t-shirt from his youth had now become his sleeping shirt, its hems slightly frayed and the once-bold image on the front having faded over the years. An ache bloomed in Minho’s chest when his memories pulled him back to 1999, to the forever of hot summer days and candy-kissed smiles.

Jisung eyelids were heavy with sleep as he lay on the sofa under the covers, and Minho leaned down to kiss the mole on Jisung’s cheek, murmuring a soft good night.

* * *

A groan akin to the sound of a dying whale echoed in the apartment. A moment later, Jisung walked out of the bathroom looking like death, with mussed hair and a wan face sporting impressive eye bags.

“Morning,” Minho said from the kitchen, stirring a boiling pot of beef and vegetable soup.

Jisung trudged toward Minho and blinked blearily. “That one time you said you felt like you got punched in the nuts but it’s in your head... I fucking get it, man.”

Minho chuckled in sympathy. “Have a seat at the counter. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

Jisung climbed on the stool and buried his face in his arms over the countertop, not moving until he heard the clank of the soup bowl and rice being laid out in front of him.

“Hangover soup?” Jisung said, looking down at the food, then up at Minho with grateful puppy eyes. “Truly, there’s only you in this world, hyung.”

“Just don’t make a habit of getting shit-faced.” Minho tousled Jisung’s already disheveled hair as the younger slurped the soup from the spoon.

As they exchanged light banter, Minho couldn’t ignore the itch flaring up in the back of his mind. Last night had been confusing to say the least, even if Jisung _had_ been booze-addled.

His eyes lingered on the strip of band-aid on Jisung’s hand, and he cleared his throat to continue. “By the way... how... much of last night to you remember?”

The spoon slightly wobbled midway from the bowl to Jisung’s mouth. It was a subtle sign, but Minho didn’t miss it.

Jisung let out a nervous laugh as he stirred his spoon around the bowl. “Most of it’s hazy, to be honest. If I made an ass of myself, please don’t hold it against me.”

“You were fine,” Minho said, turning to the coffee maker. “Want some coffee?”

“Um, no thanks.”

Jisung finished the rest of the meal in silence and cleaned up after himself. His shoulders were unusually tense as he ran the dishes under the water.

A long hot shower and a fresh change of clothes later, Jisung excused himself from the apartment, having planned to meet Changbin at the music studio.

Minho raised his coffee mug to his lips as Jisung readied himself out of the doorway.

“Say hi to Changbinnie for me.”

The younger threw up a peace sign without turning around and closed the door behind him.

* * *

The faint thumping of a bassline could be heard as Minho walked down the hallway. The closer he got to his door, the more he was convinced it was definitely coming from within his apartment.

The instant he walked in, the sweet melody of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” washed over him like a nostalgic wave, and he was faced with an unexpected sight: Jisung sporting a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and a cat ears headband, singing along in the living room. He’d apparently been serenading a very confused Doongie sitting in his cat tower.

“ _I love you Doongie, and if it’s quite alright I need you Doongie, to warm the lonely night, I love you, Doongie..._ ”

He sang passionately into a stick of Churu cat treat, spinning around when he heard Minho close the door shut. Instead of halting whatever he was doing out of any sense of dignity, he walked right up to Minho and cupped his cheek without missing a beat.

“ _Oh pretty baby, don’t bring me down, I pray. Oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay. And let me love you, baby, let me love you~_ ”

Minho giggled, batting Jisung’s hand away from his face. Undeterred and spurred on by the timeless chorus blasting from the speakers, Jisung grabbed both of Minho’s hands and pulled him to the middle of the living room to dance together—though Minho would have argued that the younger’s movements were less of a dance and more an awkward gyrating of hips.

“Jisung-ah, are you feeling okay?” Minho laughed over the music, placing his palm on Jisung’s forehead. “You’re kind of running hot.”

Jisung pushed the heart-shaped glasses higher on his nose. “I always run hot, baby.”

Minho said _fuck it_ to his own dignity and joined the other in his unique interpretive dance.

Doongie looked on from his cat tower, utterly unimpressed.

  
  
  


Jisung kept the cat ears on throughout dinner as he filled Minho in on his sessions with Changbin which had been going well. Following the meal, they shared a beer reminiscing over pre-Y2K times (though carefully sidestepping any mention of that New Year’s night).

“Do you think he loves me yet?” Jisung asked. He was crouched on the kitchen floor and feeding the Churu stick to Doongie, who enthusiastically licked up the purée.

“Give him a few more of those to eat and you’ll get there,” Minho said, staring at Jisung’s dumb yet endearing cat ears.

Jisung finally took off the headband before washing up and turning in for the night. After failing to convince Minho to sneak out together for a post-midnight snack, he resigned to crawling under his blanket on the sofa.

“’Night,” Minho said, brushing his knuckles across Jisung’s cheek before heading to the bedroom.

“What about my good night kiss?”

Minho turned around to see Jisung pointing to his cheek with his mouth curved in a shameless smile.

It seemed Jisung’s memory of his drunken night wasn’t so shot after all, as suspected. But with the younger looking up with an expectant twinkle in his eye, who was Minho to refuse?

So Minho crouched down beside the sofa and pressed his lips to the same mole-spotted cheek as before. He’d meant for it to be a quick peck, until he felt fingertips graze across his jaw, stilling him in place.

He pulled back, meeting Jisung’s gaze to silently question the touch, and his answer came when Jisung’s hand molded to the side of his face. The warmth spread from Jisung’s palm to Minho’s cheek and down his neck.

The electric tension was familiar; it recalled the candy that Jisung had licked out of his mouth and a kiss in a deserted swimming pool under moonlight.

Suddenly he felt the pressure of water against his lungs, and he was being dragged underwater by the current of every conscious and unconscious longing of the past seven years. When Jisung’s eyes dropped to Minho’s mouth and looked back up in a hooded gaze, it was as if Minho had permission to resurface—to breathe again.

And so he exhaled, long and soft, and brushed his lips to the other’s with the gentlest of pressure. Jisung returned the gesture, his mouth parting and closing over Minho’s lips, the press a little more insistent.

Minho gave in so easily he almost laughed at himself. He pressed a kiss to the cute divot below Jisung’s mouth before slotting their lips firmly back together. The kiss was playful and teasing, until Jisung took Minho’s bottom lip between his teeth, giving a firm nip and soothing it over with a hot swipe of his tongue, then capturing his upper lip to repeat the action.

Suddenly Minho was swallowed whole by the kiss; their mouths moved with increasing urgency, filling the otherwise silent room with the wet sounds of lips smacking.

Minho pulled back, gasping a little for air, and Jisung was equally breathless with lips that had turned a spit-glossed red and a deep flush coloring his face down to his neck. A heated want spiraled through Minho’s gut.

“Hyung,” Jisung pleaded in a whisper, a slight break in his voice. His hand found the back of Minho’s hair and tugged him down to resume the kiss. Minho was drowning again, the water pressing around his lungs, but this time he made no effort to resist the current that pulled him in.

An upward tug of his shirt sent Minho climbing on top of Jisung, though he was mindful of the heat pooling deep in his belly toward his growing state of arousal. Swinging a leg onto the sofa, his thigh accidentally brushed against Jisung’s own hardness, earning a strangled whimper from the younger.

Minho stilled again and looked down at him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—we can stop if you want.”

“No,” Jisung blurted out in a rush. His cheeks were impossibly red; his eyes hooded with desire. “I want to... I mean, as long as you do, too.”

“Jisung-ah,” Minho breathed out, splaying his hand across Jisung’s heaving chest. As much as every inch of his body burned with desire, as much as his heart was seized with yearning, he had to know what lay ahead for them once they crossed that unspoken line. “If we... what will this mean for us?”

A wet sheen began to form in Jisung’s eyes as he left the question hanging. He curled a hand around Minho’s nape and gently pulled him down to mouth the shell of his ear.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Jisung whispered. “It’s better that way, isn’t it?”

Minho squeezed his eyes shut, waiting out the ache in his chest that bloomed and dulled in waves, willing his heart not to get in the way for once. So he latched his mouth to Jisung’s again and pushed his tongue past easily parting lips to kiss him deep and dirty. Jisung gripped Minho’s waist to shift him completely on top of him. A needy moan slipped from Minho’s lips when Jisung reached down between their bodies to stroke their arousals.

Minho shut out the warmth and the memories; for now, they were mere bodies getting lost in the pleasurable friction of skin against skin. And he was more than okay with that. If Jisung’s heart was off limits, he would accept whatever else the younger would give of himself.

As he led Jisung to the bedroom, desperate hands moved to feel more, tongues tangled to taste more. The quiet in the apartment was broken up only by the small grunts and gasps in their haste to undress, and the whispers of fabric bunching up and sliding off bare skin.

When Jisung was down to just his boxers, he fell backward onto the mattress and shimmied back on his elbows as Minho climbed on after him and crawled between his legs. He pulled down the waistband of Jisung’s shorts and drew a small gasp at the impressive display before him.

“Holy shit,” Minho said, his tone almost reverent, “I take back every joke I ever made about you being tiny in any capacity.”

“Shut up,” Jisung said with a weak laugh. He covered his face with both hands in embarrassment, though the crimson flush of his face was creeping down to his chest now.

Minho wasted no time in getting down to business, using his mouth and hands simultaneously, working them over Jisung’s length and drawing out delicious sounds from the younger that fueled his own pulsating want. With a gentle nudge to the shoulder, Jisung stopped Minho before he could be brought over the edge too early, too fast.

They switched gears, finding the needed components in the bedside drawer. Jisung fumbled with the lube at first, but his fingers worked gently and patiently in Minho until the older brushed him away in favor of swiftly rolling the condom onto Jisung. Minho scooted back on the sheets, keeping his thighs spread apart.

“Should I—is this okay?” Jisung said softly as he pushed into Minho with a slowness that bordered on agonizing.

Minho answered by hooking his legs around Jisung’s waist and moving his own hips in an impatient rhythm.

Jisung loomed close over him, looking beyond beautiful in the dim glow of the night lamp. Strands of black stuck to his forehead and his golden skin gleamed a light sheen of sweat. It brought Minho back to seven summers ago on his old bed, lying with Jisung in a tangle of limbs that not even the summer heat could separate.

But tonight wasn’t about that. What they shared between their bodies could never be more than to sate a mutual base hunger.

Ragged breaths heated the crook of Minho’s neck as Jisung moved faster inside him. Blunt fingernails raked the expanse of Jisung’s back in response, digging harder into the skin with each jolt of unspeakable pleasure sparked by a well-angled thrust.

Minho squeezed his eyes shut when he found release, turning his face away from Jisung to hide the tear that had streaked across his temple.

Later that night, when they were both blissed out on the sheets, Jisung’s hushed voice cut through the tranquil air.

“Hyung, what’s this?”

Minho turned his head on the pillow and found Jisung holding up the seashell. He turned it over thoughtfully in his hands.

For the first time that night, a warmth coated Minho’s face from embarrassment rather than heated passion. He’d been so caught up in the charged momentum that he’d forgotten to hide that trace of their past before Jisung could see.

His very much naked body lying on the bed notwithstanding, Minho felt entirely exposed in that moment. He couldn’t bring himself to admit out loud that there were some things of that past he couldn’t let go of.

Jisung breathed out a small, delighted laugh as he closed his eyes and held the seashell to his ear.

“What is it?” Minho said.

“I can hear it,” Jisung replied, “the sound of waves.”

* * *

The next few days followed the same pattern: Jisung headed off to the studio with Changbin during the day while Minho tended to the store, and they were back at the apartment in time for dinner. Their conversations remained light and casual, and they joked around as any good friends would do. Minho pretended not to notice the faint marks blooming on Jisung’s neck—the very ones of his own doing as he had murmured praises and lust-driven curses onto Jisung’s skin the night before.

And under the heavy cloak of night, Jisung quietly sought Minho in his bedroom.

They had precious little time left. Minho would waste none of it with meaningless declarations—and by the urgency with which Jisung would strip himself bare and latch onto Minho’s skin like he was desperate to breathe, the younger seemed to know it, too. Few words were exchanged as they mapped each other’s bodies from one point of ecstacy to another. Jisung’s hold on Minho’s hips would be hard enough to bruise and Minho would blindly clench the sheets, his face pressed deep into the mattress with Jisung’s breath fanning the back of his neck.

And after they’d ridden out their highs, they’d start all over again, their veins pulsing harder with need as Minho climbed on top and gripped Jisung’s wrists over his head to take the lead, marking the younger with teeth and tongue and watching him fall apart under the expert movement of his hips.

In the aftermath, Minho and Jisung would lay boneless on the bed, easing back into more casual conversation and sharing a bottle of water as if they hadn’t just wrecked each other inside out a moment ago. But the air remained tentative between them; they lay side by side on the sheets but never embracing, never kissing outside the pretense of sex. And Minho was okay with that. It was the most logical course of their actions.

* * *

Changbin’s call came at ass o’clock in the morning.

Minho cursed his past self for not silencing the phone the prior night. Jisung groaned sleepily next to him on the bed as Minho flipped open his phone with one hand while scrubbing his face with the other.

“Seo Changbin,” he croaked out.

“Our boy’s back!” Changbin said cheerfully from the other end.

“Who... what... how...?”

“Seungminnie’s coming home today!”

Minho pried a stiff eye open and sat up on an elbow. He became distracted by the sight of Jisung’s face squished against the pillow and his long lashes fanned against his sleep-swollen cheeks. _The hell was he so cute for at this ungodly hour?_

“Seungminnie’s coming back?” Minho said when he snapped out of it. “Okay... why are you calling at the ass-crack of dawn to tell me this...”

“Because I have a favor to ask and wanted to give you ample time! And I know you’ll say yes ’cause you’re an awesome and kind hyung.”

Minho cringed, sensing the hint of aegyo in the other’s voice. “Spit it out. What do you want.”

“Could you maybe... possibly... pick up Seungmin from the airport later this morning? I told him I’d be there but... um... something came up and I won’t be able to make it. Since Jisung has a car, maybe you two can go together?”

Jisung briefly stirred next to him, sighing through his nose. A chunk of soft hair fell over his eyes, and without thinking, Minho reached out and brushed the strands from his forehead.

“You’d better have a damn good excuse,” Minho grumbled into the phone.

Changbin sighed, hesitation stalling his tongue at first. “Hyunjin invited me last-minute to his aunt’s lakehouse, and we’re already on the way there. Oops?”

That somewhat lifted the sleep from Minho’s eyes. “Did he finally ask you out?”

“I guess so, yeah,” Changbin laughed awkwardly and cleared his throat. “And what do you mean by ’finally’?”

Minho realized his fingers were still carding through Jisung’s hair, though it seemed the younger was too conked out to notice as he snoozed on. He retracted his hand like he’d belatedly reacted to a burn.

“Text me the flight info,” he said before hanging up.

* * *

Minho wore Jisung’s heart-shaped sunglasses as he held up the hastily-made sign for Seungmin’s arrival. _Seung-Meong-ie_ was scribbled onto a scrap of paper, and underneath the words Jisung had drawn a portrait of a dog that looked more like misshapen sausage with three legs.

They waited at the designated area for international arrivals, and soon a familiar male figure strode through the arrival gate, pulling a suitcase behind.

“Minho hyung?” Seungmin paused in his tracks before quickening his steps. 

His eyes became aptly wide with puppy-like energy as he approached the other two. He looked like a stock image of a jet-setting businessman, slinging his suit jacket neatly over a shoulder and his tie perfectly in place, giving no signs that he’d just survived a grueling overnight flight.

In short, he looked _dashing_ , but Minho would sooner perish than openly admit it.

“Bark, bark, woof,” Minho said. “That’s ’welcome home’ in your language.”

Seungmin wrapped him up in a warm hug, which Minho tried to wriggle out of, then he turned to Jisung with an inquisitive stare.

“Han Jisung?”

“In the flesh,” Jisung said, thoroughly welcoming the hug he received in contrast.

The three men quickly turned to chatter, catching up on the missed months—and in Jisung’s case, years—with each other.

“How long are you staying for this time?” Minho asked as he helped Seungmin load his bags into the trunk.

“For good,” Seungmin said. “I got sick of all the traveling and goddamn jet lag, so I asked to be transferred to the domestic division. It’s a step down in the scheme of things to be honest, but it’s for the best.” He closed the trunk lid and tapped it twice with his knuckles. “And I won’t lie, I’m ready for the possibility of a serious and committed relationship. Lay down my roots here and all.”

From his peripheral vision, Minho saw Jisung lean against the car door and remain frozen in contemplation. Minho’s stomach did a strange flip when they shared an accidental glance.

Upon returning to town from Incheon, they grabbed a quick lunch at a burger joint and swung by Minho’s store, as Seungmin had wished to say hello to his good friend Jeongin.

  
  
  


“A girlfriend?!” Seungmin said incredulously when Jeongin had revealed the status of his love life.

“Our maknae’s all grown up.” Minho wiped away a fake tear as Jeongin restocked herbal supplements in the front aisle, slowly migrating farther away to escape the conversation.

Seungmin then connected his gaze to Minho and Jisung who were standing together at the check-out computer, playing an innocent game of Minesweeper. “And _you two_ are obviously an item. Am I the only single one here?”

Minho and Jisung snapped their heads to Seungmin, their eyes flying open simultaneously.

“Uh, no,” Minho began, feeling the tips of his ears singe, “we’re not...”

“...we’re just friends, obviously,” Jisung chimed in with a stiff laugh.

Seungmin blinked. “Oh—my bad. I just thought since you guys both...” He trailed off and threw a weighted glance at Jisung’s neck, then at Minho’s.

A spark of panic sent Minho’s hand flying up to cover the side of his own neck. Jisung mirrored the action in a similar state of fluster as he bit his lower lip. Their shared fatal mistake had been to remove their jackets when they arrived at the store, thereby unknowingly revealing an impressive pair of matching hickeys on their lower necks.

Thankfully, Jeongin had been too busy restocking the shelves to have connected the dots the same way Seungmin had. Seungmin stifled a laugh and pointed when Minho zipped up his jacket all the way to his chin. Minho brandished a tube of vitamin tablets at him like a sword; the more he threatened, the harder Seungmin laughed.

A few minutes later, Minho was stuffing various organic foods into a bag for Seungmin to take home (because he was a magnanimous hyung despite the younger’s antics) when the front door chimed open.

A young woman looking to be in her early to mid twenties made a beeline to the front counter, clicking her heels emphatically against the floor. Sharp, catlike eyes stood out among otherwise soft features, and jet black hair shimmered down past her shoulders.

Perfectly manicured nails tapped against the marble countertop. Minho, Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin all stared at her with the same tremor of awe and fear in their pupils.

“I’m looking for Lee Minho,” she began with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Minho mentally winced at the smile that pinged the image of another customer; a certain older woman with a fondness for matchmaking.

Was this his day of reckoning? Would he later walk out of here, somehow duped into marrying this stranger?

“That... would be me,” Minho said, taking a slow step forward from the other side of the counter. Jisung’s hand found the small of his back in a gesture of support.

The woman sighed at Minho, the line of her mouth softening. “I’ve come to apologize on behalf of my mother. It seems she’s terrorized you on multiple occasions. But rest assured I’ve had a long heart-to-heart with her, and she won’t pester you again.”

Any built-up tension in Minho’s body melted away at once. “So you’re the famous Yeona, huh?” He offered up a smile, grateful for her proactive measure. “It’s alright. Seems she just wanted to do what she thought was best for you, like any concerned mother would.”

“Please,” Yeona rolled her eyes. “If she really wanted the best for me, she’d stop treating me like I’m some helpless maiden.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter with a long-suffering sigh and rubbed deep, slow circles into her temples.

“Anyone up for drinks with me?” she offered bluntly, scanning the four men standing before her. “I could use a stiff one. Or twelve. Not as a date, obviously, but I don’t wanna be the loser who drinks alone.”

She turned to Jeongin first, who reacted with a nervous smile. “Sorry, but I have to do... stuff... over there.” He conveniently slunk off to the back of the store.

“He probably still drinks milk,” Yeona observed to herself, tapping a finger on her chin. Her eyes then jumped to Jisung who subtly cowered under her gaze and took a discreet step behind Minho for cover. “And _you two_ are obviously dating,” she added matter-of-factly.

She didn’t give Minho and Jisung (who stammered and floundered about like fish out of water) a chance to refute as she had already moved onto the last man left.

“It’s two in the afternoon, ma’am,” Seungmin said as he crossed his arms. “Isn’t that a bit early for drinks?”

Yeona made a pinched face of annoyance. “If you don’t wanna go, just say so without the judgy... judgy-ness. And don’t call me ma’am.”

With a final sigh she turned to exit the shop, until Seungmin’s words hooked her back in.

“If you don’t mind switching out the shots for wine,” he began, “and waiting until the evening, I’d gladly accompany you to dinner.”

Yeona stared at him curiously, like a cat pondering on whether to spare or pounce on her prey. Seungmin gave a barely discernible arch of the brow, a subtle challenge. The corner of Yeona’s mouth quirked in return.

Minho stepped aside from the scene as the two exchanged numbers, and he turned to the computer and checked the customer accounts to keep himself busy.

He felt a chin hook onto his shoulder and a hand settle on his hip from behind.

“Just wanna watch you in action,” Jisung murmured close to his ear. “Don’t mind me.”

With Jisung’s front pressed warmly against the curve of Minho’s spine and his breath tickling Minho’s neck with each exhale, it was easier said than done.

* * *

On the final night before Jisung’s departure, Jisung had missed dinner with Minho and walked through the front door a little after 10 p.m.

His face was weighed down by a weariness of a trying day. He tried to cover it up with an equally weary smile as he greeted Minho in the kitchen.

Minho went to retrieve leftovers to heat up for Jisung, but before he could open the fridge door, two arms circled his waist from behind and a pair of warm lips were pressed to his nape. Minho turned around in the hold, and the depthless black of Jisung’s pupils spoke of a different hunger.

And so Minho held Jisung’s face in his hands and gazed into those eyes with a thousand unspoken words before diving in for a searing kiss. Jisung’s lips left a wet trail along his jaw and down the column of his throat, and Minho tilted his head to allow better access as he walked backwards toward the bedroom, pulling the other along by the belt loops.

They broke the kiss to tug their shirts over their heads and reconnected their lips before the clothes could hit the floor. Minho sighed into Jisung’s mouth when he felt the familiar heat of their bare bodies pressed together.

In less than twelve hours, Jisung would be out of Minho’s reach again, perhaps for good this time. So he wanted to make this one count. He told himself that he’d earned the right to be this much selfish.

Minho scooted back and sat cross-legged on the bed, watching for Jisung’s next move. He was surprised when Jisung climbed on and straddled his lap, and Jisung wasted no time rocking his hips to stimulate Minho as he leaned into his ear.

“Hyung, I—” Jisung whispered, his breath catching. “I want to feel you in me.”

 _Before you leave me behind again_ , said a distant voice that Minho couldn’t quell.

He pushed past the voice and focused on what his senses could absorb; the excited mingling of breaths, the faint scent of salt mixed with soap, fingers skimming across skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The lube bottle clacked open, and moments later, Jisung was already starting to fall apart under Minho’s guiding touch. After he’d regained his senses enough to roll the condom onto Minho, Jisung sank back down onto Minho’s lap and latched his limbs around the older, bringing their chests flush against each other. Minho pressed a tender kiss to the base of Jisung’s neck, followed by a series of pecks along his collarbone. His kisses slowed to a halt when Jisung tightened his hold and began to move.

Minho had wanted to take his time tonight, but his resolve crumbled as soon as Jisung’s heat enveloped him, compounded by the younger gasping in pleasure and murmuring empty promises in his ear. The closer they pushed each other to the edge, the tighter they embraced, and their hearts beat in feverish tandem until Minho could no longer tell whose beat was whose.

When Minho came for the third time that night, it was with Jisung lying beneath him and his face buried in the crook of the older’s neck. Minho felt a sudden wetness on that patch of skin; he said nothing as his own vision became an overwhelming blur. Instead he brought their hands together over Jisung’s head to interlace their fingers in a tight grip, and he kissed the mole on Jisung’s cheek, the taste of their mingled tears on his lips.

  
  
  


Neither of them got much sleep that night.

Minho stirred awake to the gentle dip and rise of the mattress as Jisung slid out of bed. He had fallen asleep on his side with his back turned toward Jisung, and the sheets had bunched up below his waist and left the upper half of his body exposed. He made no move to cover himself up, choosing to wait out the chill of the morning air.

Jisung tiptoed around the room to quietly pack his things into his suitcase for his morning flight. Minho guessed it was just before dawn, seeing that the space between the curtains glowed a few shades lighter than night.

The mattresses moved again under him.

“Hyung?” Jisung whispered from behind his shoulder. “You awake?”

Minho shut his eyes and remained still.

A stretch of silence followed, then came a soft press of lips to Minho’s bare shoulder and an upward tug of the sheets to cover his exposed skin.

Jisung rooted around the room for a few more minutes before padding out of the bedroom. Moments later, the muffled sound of the shower running eclipsed the quiet in the apartment. Minho curled up on himself under the sheets and inhaled deeply, wondering if he could stop time if he breathed slowly enough.

* * *

“I’ll miss you, Doongie.”

Jisung scratched under the cat’s chin with a careful finger. Doongie reacted with a blissful purr.

“And I forgive you for trying to murder me with your death claws that one time,” he cooed.

Minho crossed his arms and gasped in faux offense. “Hey! Cat slander shall not be tolerated in this house. My baby did nothing wrong.”

Jisung chuckled and moved his hand to scratch Doongie behind the ears, earning a slow blink of feline contentment. “If that’s not the face of love, I don’t know what is,” he said, though sadness colored his smile.

“Mission accomplished. I told you he’d warm up to you eventually.”

“I’m sure these helped,” Jisung said, pointing at the cat ears he donned on his head. He pulled his hands into the sleeves of his oversized hoodie and pawed the air to mimic a playful kitten.

Today was quite possibly the last time Minho might ever see Jisung, and _this_ would be how he remembered him. He shook his head with a wry smile.

The wall clock indicated that they shouldn’t tarry further, so the two men wordlessly hauled Jisung’s luggage out of the building and into the trunk of Jisung’s rental car. Dawn had broken over the horizon and inked the sky in a warm and comforting glow, bringing temporary reprieve to the heaviness that had hung in Minho’s chest as soon as he’d opened his eyes that morning.

“I’ll drive,” Minho said, holding out a hand for the car keys. “So you can get some shut-eye on the way.”

Jisung closed the trunk lid and rounded the car. “Hyung, you don’t have to come. How will you get back if we take my car?”

“We have this thing called taxis.”

Jisung rolled his eyes and followed up with a grateful smile. The keys jangled as he tossed them to Minho.

The journey began quietly, as few cars roamed the streets at this time of day. The hum of the road lulled Jisung to sleep in the passenger seat.

As they crossed Incheon Bridge with the sunbeam on their backs, Minho stole glances at Jisung whose head had lolled across the headrest toward Minho, cat ears and all. Minho had grown to love many angles of that face through the years, but the peaceful visage of Jisung in slumber never failed to melt his heart.

A speedbump jostled Jisung awake as they approached the airport. He rubbed his bleary face with the back of his hand.

“We’re here already?” he said, sounding more disappointed than surprised.

After dropping off the car at the rental agency, they trekked toward the terminal for international departures with Jisung’s luggage in tow. Their pace slowed the closer they got to their destination in a mutual attempt to squeeze in as much last-minute conversation as possible. (They finally settled the years-old debate and agreed that Spam and tuna were equally worthy additions to kimchi stew.) When they finally reached the terminal, Jisung queued up at the airline counter to check his baggage.

“So,” Minho said, glancing around, “I guess I’ll see you in another seven years?”

“There’s this thing called the internet,” Jisung said with a half-smile. “You have my email. And my number, if you’re stocked up on calling cards.”

As if he had any right to intrude on Jisung’s life back home, Minho thought bittersweetly. America was a vast land of infinite possibilities in Minho’s mind. It was where people rushed forward toward their dreams without looking in the rear view mirror, and unlike Minho, Jisung had too much going for him to be hung up on what-ifs from a past life.

Minho maintained a cheerful front as he pinched one of Jisung’s cat ears. “It was good to see you.”

Instead of parroting the platitude, Jisung kept silent and let his thoughtful gaze linger long on Minho’s face. A hint of redness colored the rim of Jisung’s eyes though no tears followed.

He removed his headband and gently placed it on Minho’s head. “There, now you look beautiful.”

Minho’s heart seized up at the small nothing of a gesture, and he blinked back the threat of tears before they could have a chance to betray him. He pulled off the headband to give it back but Jisung told him to keep it, saying the ears suited him better.

Knowing it did neither of them any good to linger a moment longer, Minho offered his parting words.

“Stay healthy and be well.”

“You too, hyung.”

Jisung stood in place clutching his jacket to his chest; the spark of anticipation dimming in his eyes said his goodbye for him.

In that moment, Minho was struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He saw Jisung standing by the swimming pool after his blurted confession, looking up at Minho with eyes that dared to hope on the night he had slipped through Minho’s fingers like sand.

As he was jolted back to the present moment where Jisung would slip from him once more, Minho’s body had already moved to close the distance, and he pulled Jisung into his arms and whispered his answer that had come seven years too late.

“I love you, too.”

He released the younger from his grasp with eyes cast vaguely to the ground, and walked away. His steps were swift in his escape from the terminal and into the morning light.

A plane ascended overhead, roaring across clear skies. Minho pondered the hundreds of souls that had gone airborne and if any of them were running away from a past life.

It was selfish of Minho, perhaps even cruel, to blindside Jisung like that, but what did it matter in the end? At worst, Jisung would resent him, his feelings for Minho having long since dissipated, and they’d continue to live their separate lives. At best, he would—

It didn’t matter. Their paths had strayed so far apart it would take so much more than a simple declaration to bridge the distance. It would mean asking Jisung to give up his life in America, something that Minho couldn’t dare to consider. And even if Minho was irresponsible enough to abandon his roots and flee halfway around the world, he’d only be a burden to Jisung who had barely been able to support himself until now.

Minho would live a simple and practical life from now on, and that had to be enough.

He walked farther down the pedestrian walkway and halted at a railing when his limbs became too heavy to move. He sat on the pavement and leaned against the metal balusters, folding his arms on the peak of his bent knees. The cat-eared headband dangled uselessly from a finger.

To complete this picturesque view of a lone man stewing in self-pity, he reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes, but stilled when there was emptiness where a crumpled pack should have been. With a slight frown he jammed his hand deeper in his pocket until his fingers bumped into something hard that reacted with a telltale crinkle.

His hand emerged with a palmful of candies, each wrapped in colorful foil that glinted under the sun. He expelled a puff of air that came out as a silent, choked sob; his next breath a broken and defeated laugh.

He carefully unwrapped a piece and placed it on his tongue, swirling the fruit-flavored lump in his mouth. The simple sweetness coated the thick ache in his chest, soothing it just a bit.

He allowed himself to mope in place until the candy would dissolve in his mouth, then he would need to go home and move on with his life—the life he’d known before Jisung had walked back into it without warning and turned everything on its head.

A pitch black blanketed his thoughts as he was suddenly cast in shadow. He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted up at a backlit silhouette looming over him like a human-shaped solar eclipse. Minho furrowed his brow, wondering if the candy had been spiked with something strange because he was fairly sure he was hallucinating right now.

“Jisung?”

The figure took a sideward step, bending the shadow he’d cast, and revealed himself to be a man who did look remarkably like Jisung. He was flanked by two suitcases which also looked very much like the ones belonging to the Jisung he knew.

The headband nearly fell from Minho’s grasp.

“What are you doing here?” Minho said when recognition set in, though the words floated out of his mouth like they weren’t real.

Jisung wheeled his luggage closer to the railing, and he sat down next to Minho on the pavement with a shrug. “Looks like I’ll miss my flight, sadly.”

Minho pushed the candy to his inner cheek as he felt a mild panic on Jisung’s behalf. “Did you forget your passport? If you did, we can go get it from my place if we hurry—”

His words were cut off as he watched the other reach into his hoodie pocket and pull out a boarding pass. Jisung stared at it in momentary reflection before he tore it neatly in half, then folding the halves to tear them again, and again, and again. He flung the pieces in the air and let the winds carry them down the walkway until they scattered like petals toward the brilliance of the spring sky.

Minho watched breathlessly, still not quite grasping the realness of the moment, then turned to Jisung. “What are you—how will you get home?”

“I have a more important question,” Jisung said, ignoring his words. He squinted at the sun before turning to lock their gazes, his eyes as soft and kind as Minho had ever known. “What flavor is that candy?”

Rendered speechless at first, Minho blinked once, twice, as the pieces slowly fell into place. The hot sting of tears distorted his vision until Jisung was no more than a mass of blurry shapes, but he didn’t need to see clearly to know that Jisung was beautiful. He knew it the moment he’d witnessed his foolish bravery in that dingy arcade; he knew it now, as they sat together under the droning of a distant plane.

But more than beautiful, against all odds, Jisung was _here_.

Minho turned over the candy in his mouth, letting the tears tip over and feeling a smile stretch across his face. The tug of mischief on his lips was as familiar as an old song.

“Come here, and find out for yourself.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random fact: The song that Minho listens to at the pool is "달팽이 (Snail)" by Panic. The song helped me get over the hump when I was struggling with this fic at one point - the bittersweet lyrics struck a chord and made me relate it to the Minho and Jisung I was writing.
> 
> If anyone's confused by the moth pun dialogue, it's a reference to the minsung scene in SKZ-TALKER ep. 30 lol
> 
> Special thanks to the mod of Minsung Ficathon for hosting this event! :)
> 
> If you've made it to the end, thank you for reading! ❤


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